41. See You Around

History, we are told, repeats itself. This is indeed true as there a limited number of things that can happen in the world. The number is astronomical, but nevertheless is limited, therefore some happenings must repeat.

The sorry statement of the economy which has resulted in school leavers being unable to find employment is typical.

Boys of my generation were in a like predicament in the depression of the Thirties as our father were before us, and theirs before them.

I, myself, left school armed, not with a degree, or any other kind of qualification, but in common with untold thousands of lads, with a school report which stated I was honest, trustworthy, diligent, and a really intelligent boy, who would be an asset to any employer fortunate enough to acquire my services. This glowing reference was written in the same spirit which says one should not speak ill of the dead, as everyone got a similar eulogy.

The only thing that was an indisputable fact was the word 'boy'. We could all prove that to be true.

The clerk at Marylebone labour exchange said "Job. You'v got a bloody hope. Don't you know there's millions out of work?"

I wasn't all that aware of the facts of life as I'd been queued up with a line of blokes stretching as far back as Edgware Road. So I signed on and made the number up to millions and one.

One Wednesday morning I got sent to a car sprayers and painters who wanted a tea boy and chassis painter. This opportunity occurred as their previous boy had reached the age where he was entitled to mans wages, and it was the practice then to make him a journeyman. In other words, he was sacked, for few and far between were the guv'nors who would pay mans money to a boy who'd been doing man's work for years on boy's wages, so he got the bullet and had to find work elsewhere.

The guv'nor told me his name was Jack, took me to where a large lorry was jacked up with the wheels off and said I was to scrape all the shit from under the wings and off any part of the chassis and steering that could be seen, and paint it black. He stressed that I must not clean and paint anything that couldn't be seen as it was a waste of money, and if I started right away he'd pay me a full weeks pay of 12/6d as he wasn't one of these mean bastards who'd rob a kid of three days pay. So I got down and started scraping dirt.

Jack was a man of few words, most of them four letter ones, and in the two years I worked for him I never once saw him without a fag stuck between his slobbery lips and a trilby hat perched on the back of his head. I'm sure he never altered that on the night he entertained his bit of crumpet in his office on the bed it was my duty to erect before I went home. And to dismantle and store away the next morning in case his missus popped in during the day.

As I laid under the van and scraped oily mud over my face, it occurred to me that learning to converse fluently about my aunt's pen and my uncle's pencil in French as school (la plume de ma tante et le crayon be mon oncle), had been a right waste of time. The only chance I had to paint, had run over a French onion seller and they'd forgotten to pull him out, even then, unlikely as it was, he'd be more interested in what happened to his bike rather than my aunt's bloody fountain pen, and I didn't know the French for scrap iron.

It was all very depressing. The transition from being school hero, I was held in no small esteem by hordes of scruffy herbs as I could swim very well and had won the Paddington Schools championship and the West London ditto, and was reasonably skilled at football and cricket, to a general dogsbody usually addressed as 'Hey you', was a bit much. I wasn't at all happy, but what to do?

Lucky to get any job then. As now.

It was the tea-boy part of the job which made it all bearable. At 10.30am and again at 4.30pm I escaped from bondage carrying a long pole on which hung a line of tin cans and a large paper bag to put in the two's of dripping, bacon buttys and hot savs ordered by the men. To a shangri-la of steaming food and large mugs of scalding tea which kept the windows permanently curtained with condensation. 

Old Bills Cafe in Osnaburgh Street.

The minute you stepped in the door , the smell and sight of the customers scoffing their kippers, hot dripping toast, taters in jacket with a knob of marge or smoking their Woodbines or Weights, gave you the comfort and security feeling of an unborn child in the womb. You felt right cosy.

Old Bill was a little bloke with a few wisps of hair carefully spread sideways over his head, a mouth like the Grand Canyon which, when not threatening to swallow his ears with a grin, continually bellowed orders to Mrs Old Bill who did the cooking in the tiny kitchen at the back. He always wore a striped butchers apron, (the apron was striped, not the butcher), a shirt without a collar, a pair of blue trousers cut from a boiler suit and a tatty pair of once white plimsolls.

A far cry from your takeaway proprietor's soup and fish suit of today, but Old Bill was the mooring buoy of my formative years in industry.

He was kind, always had a cheery word for you, slipped you a cup of tea or a hot sav on the house on a cold morning, and never took the mick out of the tea boys. He knew that we were treated with as much respect as a little bit of poop by the guv'nors ans foremen, and took us under his wing like a protective Fagin in reverse. I never knew him to cheat anybody, but neither did he trust anyone where money was concerned. Especially the customers , as the large notice which hung over the counter informed you:

NO TICK

I trust that I do not offend

Not lending money to a friend

Trust me to do my best to please

But pay me for your bread and cheese

I've trusted many to my sorrow

So pay today and trust tomorrow.

A lot of tea boys came to Old Bill's and I thought it strange that I was the only one who carried a pole with cans on.  All the others had a large tin jug which Old Bill filled to the brim. When I asked one of them why, he said that Bill charged a tanner to fill a jug and you could put enough pennorths of tea to satisfy your workers into ten cans. Thus making a profit of 4d a trip.

My first lesson in wheeling and dealing. I got a jug and next time at Old Bill's asked him to fill it up for sixpence please.

"Didn't take you long to find out, did it?" he grinned "Saucy sod" but filled it up, and always did from then on without question.

Well it was no skin off his nose really, as he just put the amount on tea that cost sixpence and topped it up with hot water to fill the jug.

So, the blokes at work were happy cos they got their pennorth of tea in their cans, I was ecstatic at making 4d per trip to the cafe, and Bill, while he actually lost the 4d, didn't lose on the take as he only put a tanners worth of tea, was happy because, as I said, he was a kind man who had a sincere sympathy for a lot of the tea boys of the thirties.

He, and his cafe and the slums of Osnaburgh Street have long since gone. And I wouldn't want to see the life we lived then back again. But there's one thing that's missing from the imposing architecture of the White House that now stands at the Euston Road end. Its a small cafe built bang in the middle with a hand painted sign reading "Old Bill's" where you got more than a good nosh up.

You got hope and spiritual uplift in an era of nuffin'.

I think that the depression of the Thirties was far worse than the present recession and I sincerely hope that conditions of today never reach those depths. I don't think they will although history has again repeated itself in respect of young people being unemployed.

It won't get another chance to repeat if it does.

This is a sombre way to finish a series reflecting on the funny side of people, which has lasted for close on ten years. But there's two ways of being funny.

Funny ha-ha, and funny peculiar.

So one must include the peculiar aspect also, and the most peculiar side of homo sapiens is it's determination on eventual self destruction.

Well, lets hope it never happens, but in the meantime, I hope you've enjoyed the laughs.

See you around.

Ed Pottinger.

Editing Ed

"Boxer, swimmer, writer, fisherman, postman...what else?"

So commented cousin Lynn in response to my Facebook post nearly 4 years ago on what would have been Grandad's 100th birthday. 

This series has (obviously!) highlighted Grandad's writing, with maybe a few pictures of him demonstrating his other talents too. 

When I started I intended to publish the pieces without any changes. Perhaps inevitably, as they were all written in the 1970s and 80s, passage of time has meant some of the language used isn't so suitable for today's audience.  A writer-friend suggested I could just go with the original text and a footnote pointing that out. 

In the event, over the course of two years and 50,000 words, I found myself editing Ed, making some light adjustments, changing or removing a word or two here and there, as needed. One or two merited heavier deletions or re-writing whilst trying to retain the spirit of the originals. In a couple of instances I've switched the order round to make for a better overall flow (14 and 15 swapped places, and number 40,  Life In Paddington, was originally at 38).

I also completely dropped two pieces which research suggested weren't entirely original: "The Parents Charter", for one, which is well known and can be found much anywhere.

More notably, a piece of poetry entitled "I'm Fine Thanks", which is to be found on a number of internet sites. Authorship seems debatable, some sites attribute no author, a couple of sites suggest a name or two, offering it as being penned in the early 1950s. My hypothesis is that Grandad did author it, and that all the versions on the web are actually lifted from his original Harrow Post publication, and subsequently mis-attributed. Why not?

We're also lucky enough to have a piece, unseen since 1979, "Hoist By His Own Petard", that wasn't in Jennie's original People Are Funny compilation, courtesy David who salvaged it from an original Harrow Post. If any more surface I'll publish them here. 

Despite being 35-45 years old, most of the themes - the silly through to the serious - still hold good and remain relevant:  irrational fears and phobias, holidays vs  home, ghost tales, giving up smoking, poverty, unemployment and homelessness, multiculturalism, thriftiness, success and failure, stoicism in adversity, family and growing up. 

That Ed, and, err, this ed. 1971.

Whilst I quickly got fed up with typing - to the point I typed the whole lot over several weekends months ago just to get it done - in the main I found the articles a fascinating read and insight. This was the first time I'd studied them properly, or seen them at all since I was in my teens. I've also added a little research to provide some background and extra touches for some stories, in particular those covering growing up in Paddington, and trawling to find relevant family photos, to accompany what previously had been text-only publications. Hopefully additions for the better.

Thanks to you for stopping by for a read. Unsurprisingly, views have mainly been from the UK and Canada, but a sprinkle from unexpected countries. Peru, anyone?

From an early peak, views have come down in number but average about 16 per post. A couple of notable successes, albeit not exactly viral sensations: "Life In Paddington" got 220+, after I shared it with a Paddington-related Facebook group. "The Oomy Goolie Bird", for no reason I can fathom, also has some 200+ views, and counting. Go figure.

I hope Grandad would be pleased to be back in 'print' and being read again.

There is one final article left which will be posted shortly. I'll see you around.

JH
Jan. 2020

40. Life In Paddington

I'm not all that well acquainted with the appalling living conditions of a large number of the more unfortunate and poorer section of the population. While not having the affluent living quarters of yer Royalty, mate, I have been fortunate in being reasonably housed for the past thirty years by Harrow Council. Thus slightly out of touch with conditions that exist throughout this sceptred isle of ours.

Mind you, it wasn't always so and I can claim to have some knowledge of how the other half live, being born and raised in the garden city of England. Paddington.

I lived in the maze of streets swarming with kids, fleas, mice, cats and dogs, on the wrong side of the Harrow Road, which was a ripe attack of acne on the fair skin of the W.2. of the other side towards Kensington Gardens and Marble Arch.

Most families lived in two rooms of the three story tenement houses that comprised the architecture of the area, with the use of one communal bog. We were lucky in having a lavatory to ourselves as we lived down the aery, which was the term for the basement, which had an area surrounded with iron railings.

On one side  were four coal cellars, one of which had been converted into a lavatory and still had the round iron lid in the roof which was the pavement outside. No matter how tightly you fixed the chain that secured it, some bright herb would prise it open sufficiently enough to pour water over you while you were having five minutes meditation.

One of the vivid memories of my youth is the picture of a mate of mine being chased up the road by my old man who was holding up his trousers with one hand while belting my mate with the other. He had poured water down the coal lid thinking I was in the carsy, but the old man had been in occupation when I went down. I think what upset the old man most was the fact that water had dowsed his pipe which he always smoked in the toilet. Liked a bit of comfort, did my dad.

Our street, Westbury Road*, started at Harrow Road and this end was always called the top, and joined Westbourne Terrace North at the other end. This was always called the bottom.

Westbury Road, highlighted yellow running from Harrow Road to then-Westbourne Terrace North, now Bourne Terrace

The top was fairly nondescript having a group of corrugated iron sheds on one side which we called the old tin school, and a large house in which a Jewish family manufactured hair creams and tonics, on the other. 

But the bottom was a colourful kaleidoscope of life, where the basic needs of the populace were catered for by the small shops over which hung all the aromas imaginable. None of your spicy smells of the Orient but the pongs of pure English origin.

Beetroots boiling away in the big open copper in a corner of Harry Smith's greengrocery gave emphasis to the earthy smell of the piles of freshly picked celery stacked in another corner. The feeling of being near to nature was furthered by the steaming heap of horse manure at the side of the shop where 'Arry stabled the large horse with which he conducted the second half of his trade as Greengrocer and Removals.

'Arry, whose complexion was the colour of his beetroots, always wore a cloth cap sideways on his bald head, proclaimed the virtues of his celery in a voice like thunder with -"Do yerselves a favour, gels. Couple of sticks for the old man'll cure his brewers droop better than Robin starch".

Westbourne Terrace North, now Bourne Terrace. Home to Harry Smiths, Olivers etc

From the iron grating in the pavement in front of the bakers wafted the appetizing smell of baking bread. One of the two brothers who ran the shop was homosexual. He delivered loaves by balancing a tray stacked with them on his head, and walked with a hip sway like Mae West's. It was a favourite pastime of the young herbs to try and make him drop them by touching him up as he passed and shouting - "Nancy - Boy". He never did, however, and although he'd shout at them and call them naughty boys, I felt that he thoroughly enjoyed and looked forward to the encounter.

The delicious smell of baking bread unfortunately had to fight for top niff with old Lukey's rag and bone shop next door. A right old pong came from it from the rabbit skins which hung around the walls drying out. He paid a penny for a complete skin and sold them to a furriers, and did a good trade as rabbit was a good cheap tasty meal in those days. When the day of Judgement comes, old Lukey will surely be at hand, in his dirty grey vest and corduroy trousers, to call to account the foul scientists who invented myxamatosis and thus killed his trade.

The inevitable fish and chip shop wafted it's mouth watering odours to blend with the appetizing smell of the pie and eel shop opposite. Both did a roaring trade as most folk lived mainly on a tuppenny bit of fish and a pennorth of chips or a tuppenny meat pie and mash with liquor. It was always called liquor, never gravy.

Evan's Dairy was clinically clean, it had to be as butter was not prepacked but chopped off a large mound on the counter and pounded into the correct size with two butter pats, which were two flat blades of wood. Milk was served, from an open churn with a half pint measure with a long handle and poured into your jug. However it always smelt of stale milk there because the iron cow, which you could get milk from after closing time, was a nozzle set in the door with a handle you pulled, after putting a penny in the slot and if it didn't dribble the milk out in drops would shoot a jet with hurricane force over your boots and on to the pavement.

Evans Dairy - suspect the same business, but not the site Grandad refers to - this one is c3miles further east

Isaac Oliver's hardware store smelt real country and western with it's boxes of Hudsons soap, bundles of firewood chopped from tarry logs, open stone jars of mustard pickles from which he'd ladle a pennorth with a big wooden spoon and slap it into a sheet of newspaper. A wooden barrel of vinegar stood at the back , just out of sight. Isaac always asked if you wanted penny or tuppenny a pint vinegar, not that it made any difference cos it all came from the one barrel.

Charlie Child's tobacconist shop smelt as though someone had set fire to a box of Havana cigars fifty years ago and it had been burning like an Olympic flame ever since.

While Charlie certainly sold cigars, his cliental didn't get beyond 2d. packets of Woodbines in their green paper covers or five Weights. On pay days they lashed out on twenty Players, or Gold Flake or maybe Craven A., all costing elevenpence a packet. He was an avid partaker of snuff, which he sold in half ounces, weighed on a pair of tiny brass scales and wrapped in a screw of paper. Seeing Charlie take a pinch of snuff was a real education. He'd sprinkle a minute quantity along the back of his hand with the care and expertise of the King's gardener sowing a row of sweet peas. Then closing his eyes , applied one nostril to it and drew a breath which made the hairs on his hand stand up straight. Then ditto with the other nostril. His eyes would then slowly open, gradually dilate as his mouth opened, and RAASHOO ! He'd nigh on blast you out the door with a shower of atomised liquorice coloured droplets.

I thought it was a filthy habit, and asked him once why he took it, and he said "It dode half keeb yer dose clear". The main undercoat of smells from these emporiums and others came from the boozer on the corner, The Manor House. The stench of stale beer hung like a shroud over it day and night but this paled into insipidness when you caught a niff of the salty, tangy stench of the Gents at the side. It was merely a walled enclosure without a roof, any flushing system, and only a gulley round the floor to take away thousands of gallons of recycled four ale.

I was visiting Waddesdon Manor**, in Bucks, just recently. This is a National Trust property bequeathed to the nation by the Rothschild family. We enjoy looking at the fabulous treasures all these great houses contain and marvelling at the skill of the untold number of craftsmen who created them. We stood in the Red drawing room at Waddesdon gazing up at the wonderful painting on the ceiling by Jacob de Wit of the Apotheosis of Hercules, while at our feet lay the Savonnerie carpet made for Louis XIV.

Waddesdon Manor

Whilst realising that without the patronage of people as the Rothschilds, treasures such as these would never be available for ordinary people like myself and my family to see, I always feel feel that surely God never meant for people like the Rothschilds to have so much, while people like those who lived down our street had so little.

Then I thought, I don't know, though, perhaps the blokes who used to stand in the bog by the Manor House weren't so bad off after all. Answering the urgent call of nature is a most satisfying sensation and they only had to look up while they were doing it, and they could see a picture created by God, unequalled by man. That of the stars and the sky.

In this they were better off than Baron de Rothschild, who while standing in the Red drawing room, admiring his painting on the ceiling, couldn't have the added pleasure of answering the call of nature at the same time.

Well, not on his Savonnerie carpet, he couldn't.


Notes

* Westbury Road, number 9. As Grandad says, then running from Harrow Road to Westbourne    
  Terrace North. 
 It is  now replaced by Westbourne Grove Open Space, though you can see the line of Westbury Road    running through the centre of the space. See the pictures below.

Westbourne Park Open Space as it is today. The line running top to bottom the route of the former Westbury Road.

Westbourne Park Open Space - the view from then-Westbourne Terrace North, now Bourne Terrace, to Harrow Road - along what was Westbury Road.

A near miss in 1944

For more background on Paddington streets, see here. Familiar Streets - Paddington and Unfamiliar Streets - Paddington A lot of commentary but you will find reference to Harry Smiths and Olivers as both being located on (West)Bourne Terrace, along with lots of pictures of the area. Also try the Facebook group "Paddington. Past Caring".

** For more on Waddesdon Manor see:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Waddesdon_Manor
https://waddesdon.org.uk/

Odds and Sods - Bonus Post - Hoist By His Own Petard

This story wasn't included in Jennie's compilation, but David has a number of the original Harrow Post publications, and this was amongst them. So, for the first time since it was originally published in 1979, here is "Hoist By His Own Petard".

Ever heard of the saying "Hoist by his own petard" ? 

My interpretation would be "Caught in his own trap" and if what I read in the paper is true, the petards of todays' youth are to be well and truly hoisted. I read that the incidence of the flea is on the increase, owing it is said, to the long hair now worn by the youth of the world, because they don't want to be like dad, is not washed enough, and the grotty tangle of matted rats tails is proving to be an ideal breeding ground for our old mate, the small, wingless, leaping insect (re. Websters dictionary).

The logical sequence of events following such a disclosure, must be the return of the 'short back and sides', possibly even the crew cut and the return of untold hordes of redundant barbers gleefully polishing the scissors and razors, long since discarded.

One thing's for sure, you can't alter nature and no boy is going to wash himself any more than he can possibly help, never has and never will. Thus, in their efforts to be different they will become the same, because if they persist in looking like mum, because they don't want to look like dad, then we shall see the return of two more old friends, the flea comb and Nitty Nora, with her dreaded judgement - "All off". 

The flea comb was as much a necessity as a frying pan in the household when I was a boy, for no matter how much parents preached cleanliness was akin to Godliness, kids in Paddington, and in any other district which housed citizens basking in the affluence of the mightiest Empire the world had ever known, avoided too much washing, as they still do. The homes we lived in were old when the Empire was young and generally housed tribes of Gods' smaller creatures inside the lathe and plaster walls.

So the small black comb, with its rows of fine teeth along both edges, was regularly run through our hair over a sheet of newspaper spread over the table, and any flea unfortunate enough to be unhoused, despatched with the thumb nail pressed on it, when it disintegrated with a resounding crack.

If the thought of the poor man's big game hunt makes you itch, it's because (a) you're too young to know of such conditions, (b) you've forgotten all about them, (c) you've been living in a cloud cuckoo land of hygiene, good food and coloured toilet rolls, or (d) you're just plain finicky. 

Well, you are coming down to earth with a bang, because youthful fashion, which has decreed that every effort must be made to cover their faces and heads with what grows in profusion round their backsides, has resulted in the massing of the legions of the night, once more to march down the walls to invade your bed and keep you company in the wee small hours.

Now and then, school kids of my time, were marshalled for health inspection and paraded in front of a grim female in a starched uniform, who, after testing your eyes (if you had two, you passed) our ears by looking in them with the aid of a torch, and our heart by listening through a stethoscope, like a gully mans' drain plunger, and thumping our scrawny chests with her big red fist, and then ran a large metal comb, which stood in a bowl of Jeyes fluid, through our hair and then delivered her verdict - clean or the dreaded "all off". Thus Nitty Nora, as she was universally known. Should you be one of the unfortunates to receive the thumbs down stigma of 'all off', you were literally branded in public eyes as unclean, for it meant what it said. You were made to go to a barber, who clipped your hair tight to the skin, leaving only a small tuft of hair on top of the forehead, which was known as a knocker, and many a small child went through life with a 'tuppenny' all off and tormented by jeers of his mates who were more fortunate in the diligence of their parents with the flea comb.

Mind you, it seems as though we are to see the return of a lot more things that were commonplace a generation ago, and through no fault at all of the long haired brigade, much as the Alf Garnetts among us would like to blame them for everything from aberrancy to zymosis, which sounds very technical but ain't if you look it up. The world shortage of timber is causing commodities that we take for granted, hard to get, sometimes to disappear entirely and we will have to resort to the make-do efforts that wore unquestioned in the days of the flea comb and Nitty Nora.

People adapt very easily to unavoidable conditions, so eating your fish and chips out of the Evening News won't come as a surprise for long nor will wrapping your sandwiches in a bit of damp cloth to keep them fresh. 

Friends of ours, out for an evening spin the other Sunday, were faced with the harsh realities of life when their car broke down outside a famous hotel in Park Lane, W.1. Not at all awed by the number of stars the hotel merited, they marched up and asked the porter if they could use the phone to call the A.A., and it happened that this regal wallah, who'd probably kept the rain off more famous bonces with his big brolly than you've had hot dinners, was a very matey type and ushered then into the lounge, sumptuous as it was, and suggested they had a drink served while waiting for the breakdown van. Well, after a couple of hours and several drinks, a visit to the toilet was necessary and matey with the top hat and outsize umbrella, who obviously knew that the greatest leveller of all, is not the old man with the scythe but the call to nature, directed them to the bogs. Those palaces of sanitary engineering weren't exactly in the same class as the local pub gents, where you're apt to get your shoes wet if the spreader on the wall suddenly gushes, even had an attendant to dust you down and wipe the beads of perspiration from the brow in cases of difficulty. But hanging on the wall in both ladies and gents, was not the usual toilet roll for the hardy few who couldn't work the bidets, but squares of newspaper threaded through on a bit of string.

Which goes to show that when adversity hits the Nation, we must all make do with what we can, and square up to it with a smile on our face, and we will find that our hardest times are well behind us.

39. The Money Pit

aka Don't Believe Everything.

There are a lot of proverbs which, when paired together,say exactly the opposite to each other. For instance, "Many hands make light work" and "Too many cooks spoil the broth".

"He who hesitates is lost" differs from "Look before you leap", and "Birds of a feather, cling together" seems to deny that "Opposites attract".

In much the same way if  "It's a wise child that knows it's own father" how come "Blood is thicker than water"?

Or if "Travel broadens the mind" why does "A rolling stone gather no moss" ?

All this merely illustrates the fact that, no matter how convincing a statement may seem, you don't have to believe everything you're told. 

I think that the average person is quite happy to soak up anything he's told. Not because he particularly believes it, but because it's not his action, man, and he don't want any trouble. Besides, it's an escape from reality to see colour where only greys and whites exist and life would be very drab if only the basics were shown. Just take it all with a pinch of salt and use your loaf, cos it's a shame to spoil all the fun and insist on calling a spade, a spade all the time.

As did the army sergeant who was listing the sick parade. "What' you r trouble then?" he growled at one bod who stood there, "I got hamorrhoids, sarge." said the bod. "Hamorrohoids" roared the sergeant "Hamorhoids! You ain't got hameroids. Hameroids is for the H'aristocracy. What you got is piles!"

Which, of course, was quite true, but it spoilt the delicacy of the whole situation. (and showed that I can't spell haemorrhoids correctly more than once in a story.)

But about not believing all you're told. I think I learnt in a painful way that it's wise not to take everything as gospel. 

First when I was at school, I discovered that Sir, when he told you , with sorrow in his eyes, that it was going to hurt him far more than it did you, as he prepared to give you two on each hand with a dirty great cane; was a flipping liar. 

He didn't have to sit on his hands to deaden the stinging.

Secondly, when the foreman at the foundry where I worked, assured me that the molten brass I was trying to pour into the moulds would definitely go into the cups, after I had told him that I couldn't get the right angle to do so, I believed him. 

And poured it straight into my boot. The resulting burns kept me off work for a fortnight.

No, it's wise not to believe everything you're told.

Nobody in their right mind really believes that there's a dirty great dinosaur swimming about at the bottom of Loch Ness.* 

And no true Scot wants any bliddy Sassenach to find one there, either. Kill the tourist trade stone dead if they did.

Everybody is quite happy the way things are. The haggis bashers tell us there's a monster there, and we're quite happy to go there and quake at the thought of seeing an oversized Michelin tyre emerging from the depths. 

Behind most of these mysterious happenings or creatures that go bump in the night, there's usually some crafty bod raking in a load of bread. 

How many tourist attractions haven't got a ticket office or a coach booking office?  Very few. 

I've often been accused of having a sceptic mind, mainly by my family, who say I don't believe in anything unless it can be proven in writing, statistics, or scientific fact. No romance in my soul, as

it were. 

While this is not true, I'll admit I don't believe in ghosts, have no superstitions, (excepting I can't pass a pin without picking it up), and inevitably feel that if anyone flatters me or gives me any bull about how good-natured I am, they're after something. Nine times out of ten, they are and I finish up with a back breaking job or lending them a couple of quid. 

We once went to see the place where Capt. Kidd reputedly buried his treasure. It was on Oak Island, Nova Scotia.*

It is a must for people visiting the Ocean Playground of Canada, as Nova Scotia is known, and is situated of the western shore of the mainland. It is proudly said to be the costliest treasure hunt in the world. (By the N.S. board of Tourism). 

And they can say that again, as they've been digging for it since 1795 when the Money Pit, as it is called, was discovered. And ain't found the treasure yet. 

The guide who was giving us the spiel, told us that the money pit was found by two young boys who were playing there one afternoon. They were digging in the sand when they came across a block and tackle arrangement on a wooden platform 35 feet below the surface.

Well, I mean to say, what would you have said ? I did.

"You trying to tell me a couple of 'erbs dug firty five feet dahn just larking abaht ?" I asked in the accentuated Cockney accent that I feel obliged to use when talking to foreigners to let them know I'm English. 

I got the pat answer, which I'll admit I asked for. "I forgot to tell you that they were forty years old when they came up, sir". 

This is known as evasive repartee in the guide training manual, which did nothing to lessen my scepticism about the whole set-up, and I muttered to my wife that I couldn't make out why, with all of todays modern equipment, they hadn't been able to get that treasure out since it was put there 200 years ago. Typical Loch Ness tourist effort, I reckoned. Come to think of it, I said, warming to my theme, Nova Scotia means New Scotland and I bet they got the idea from their homeland. 

She whispered fiercely "Shut up and don't you dare spoil it for the kids" and made me plant a load of ten cents and quarters in the sand where the grandchildren would be sure to find them, so that they would believe in the treasure trove. 

                                                               Ian Tyson - Smugglers Cove

She was right , of course, got to have some dreams in life. I still think the only treasure there is from blokes like me who have to empty their pockets of loose change to help the illusion. Which is what I mean by not believing all you're told. It'll cost you if you do. But, be careful, perhaps more if you don't.

*Notes:

See :
Loch Ness - Wikipedia - Loch Ness Monster

Oak Island -  Wikipedia - Oak Island

38. Family History

Some years ago this magazine printed an article headed "Skeleton In The Cupboard" which was basically an advert. In which one of our now retired members touted for customers who were interested in tracing their ancestry. I was one of them.

Unfortunately our old mate, who didn't have the resources, or possibly enough knowledge of the job to build a family tree for an ape, let alone a human being, failed to trace my old man, although I supplied him with birth certificates of both he and my grandfather.

Much to the amusement of certain persons who doubted my legitimacy anyway. So it all fell through.

Edward James and Alice Pottinger. Baby Ed.

But the curiosity about one's forebears is in everybody and I have been told of a well organized family association that has been formed by a member of the Eustace family. P.E.O. Bernie Eustace is my informant, and this will be an interesting story for all who are curious about your ancestry.

Bernie got a circular from a Mr Eric Eustace, a civil servant, inviting him and his family to a gathering of the Eustace family at Pyrton, Oxon. on September 15th this year. This chap had, in collaboration with his brother and another namesake , done an amazing amount of research in tracing the family line and proposed to form a family association with hopes of enrolling the thousand or more bearers of the name who lived in the UK.

Briefly, with the aid of Parish records from Bledlow and Chinnor, the family line had been traced back to the Norman Conquest.

Since then other branches have been traced to the USA and New Zealand.

Well, Bernie went along and had a thoroughly interesting day with over 200 bearers of the Eustace name from all parts of the UK, and even some from America and New Zealand.

They had a tour of the Oxfordshire villages associated with the family, a picnic lunch, a visit to the Church at Pyrton where they presented a stand for the historic bell there, then an evening meal catered for by the ladies of Pyrton.

St Marys, Pyrton

From this exercise Bernie has found that most amongst his ancestors* were a Count of Boulogne, a Mayor of Oxford,  a champion wrestler from Wakefield and a King of Jerusalem!

While I hesitate to imagine what kind of nickname may now be applied to him, knowing the inventiveness of the local talent in this respect, I don't think it will in any way upset him, as he has fulfilled an urge that is inherent in all of us.

PS. I notice that one of his ancestors was prolific enough to sire twenty-two children. No wonder Bernie has fathered eight offspring. Couldn't help it, it's in the blood.

* Notes. See:

Eustace's I, II, III and IV  Wikipedia Eustace I,  Wikipedia - Eustace II, 

                                          Wikipedia - Eustace III,  Wikipedia - Eustace VI 

Mayor Thomas Eustace. 1639-1703. Mayor 1678/9.  oxfordhistory.org - Mayors - Thomas Eustace

Wakefield, Kansas, USA, that is. Alan Eustace 1892-1972  wrestlingdata.com - Alan Eustace  

Baldwin I (son of Eustace II of Boulogne)  Wikipedia - Baldwin I of Jerusalem

37. Graffiti

Just recently a facelift operation got underway at Head Office and was brought to a successful conclusion with only a very few of us realising the traumatic effect this would have on our way of life. I refer to the redecoration of the toilets.

Apart from the inconvenience caused to some, whose bladders were finely adjusted to operate at the toilet to which they had trekked, then, on arrival found that said bladders had to be put into overdrive in order to reach the next point of dispatch, the whole operation passed without comment.

The fact that some of the workforce got damp underwear, or pains in the lower regions before reaching the diverted haven, is of no consequence. What is of great import and a great intrusion on human rights was the erasing of the graffiti on the walls.

Graffiti writing is highly important in this day and age. Through it, the human race achieve the spiritual serenity that is given by the priest after confession. In fact, I think that it is even more satisfying than the confessional. A certain courage is needed to tell a person your innermost thoughts, even though that person is the to understand and grant you forgiveness, but any errant coward can pluck up enough courage to creep into the church and chalk "The vicar is a twit" on the pulpit front.

By the exercising of the right of free speech through the media of the felt tip pen everybody is satisfied. The writer feels better for getting it off his chest and on to the wall, the faithful are more likely to enjoy a boring sermon if the vicar ain't seen what he's preaching over, and he knows how he stands in the eyes of the congregation when he does.

Most graffiti is written on lavatory walls, mainly because it is here that the writer is unlikely to be disturbed whilst in the throes of composition, and inspiration is at it's peak during the soul satisfying sensation of answering the call of nature.

It is here that the most profound deliberations on a persons character are thought out and transferred to the wall.

It is here that the tongue-tied lover tells of his passion and obsession with the anatomy of his beloved which he could never tell to her face. "I love Nellie's great big knockers".

It is here that the racists get at the immigrants, and the immigrants get back at the racists.

It is here that injustice, actual or imaginary, is recorded for posterity. "The Union have sold us up the creek" or "The management couldn't organise a p--- up in a brewery".

However, I find during a hasty research into the quality of service to mankind that the graffiti on our bog walls has given, that writings thereon are, by and large, totally uninspired.

There were indeed, some very apt remarks thereon, but the bulk of them were the natural progression of folk who started off at a tender age by scribbling "Bum" on the pavements, in chalk which they had pinched off the teacher's desk.

Graffiti writing is an art to be learnt properly if it is to be effective. I propose that future writings, which are inevitable, on our now virgin wall, be done only by elected Graffiti Scribes who must hve six O-levels, of which Terse Verse and Correct Spelling of Descriptive Nouns be mandatory. It is not good for our image for inscriptions to read "My P.E.D is a right b-------". Think how much better it would look if instead it were to read "My P.E.D should be in charge of the bar. He'd make a proper bar-steward".

To help you as to the standard of graffiti required, I am printing hereunder some classic examples of the art by Nigel Rees from his book "Graffiti lives OK" which was contributed by driver Ricky Steward who did the research.

Some comments written on church notice boards:

"Where will you be on the day of Judgement? - Still waiting here for a 183 bus"

"Work for the Lord - the pay ain't good but the fringe benefits are out of this world"

"Jesus saves - with the Woolwich?"

"Jesues saves - Keegan scores on the rebound"

Seen written on a condom vending machine:

"Subject to VAT if used on the premises"

"My dad says they don't work"

"This is the worst bubble gum I've ever tasted"

"Not for sale during the French postal strike"

In a gents loo:

"Smile, you are now on Candid Camera"

"Christine, if you're reading this, we're through"

"You don't buy beer you rent it"

"If you're looking for a joke, you've got one in your hand"

What about these for wit:

"Three channel TV sets. £10 each. As advertised on Police 5"

"I'd give my right arm to be ambidextrous"

"The grave of Karl Marx is just another communist plot"

"Rugby is a game played by men with odd shaped balls"

"Tonights meeting of the Apathy Society is cancelled"

"Hypochondria is the one disease I haven't got"

"Humpty Dumpty was pushed"

"I hate graffiti. I hate all Italian food"

And rounding off with a poignant remark on the sad state of the economy: 

"Buy now while the shops last"