If you didn't like the music.....

...you might like this one!

The music is worse mind!

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Sunday Night Music

Mississippi Fred McDowall

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A Bit of Fun

A charity concerned with Dementia care arranged a 'fun day' in the town today. The idea being to collect money from various stalls and activities plus inform the town about a growing problem amongst us these days.  I suppose dementia has always been here but we just referred to it as old folks going 'Gag,' or possibly it is because we live longer these days and it is more of a problem. With this in mind I was in the museum on hand in case things got busy.  Pah! Not busy enough, the schools returning and holidays passed folks are returning to normal and kids are not being taken to places that cost.  There was a trickle of people, a Melbourne couple whom we had a laugh (why do Aussies use such strange words?), a local seeking ways to entertain his visitors which led to a discussion about railways and my giving him what turned out to be incorrect information, a couple from land unknown who tried to pass a forign coin off on us, Pth! One ageing somewhat confused lass turned up struggling to find the entrance to the Cafe set up by the Dementia people.  This was at the far end of the building right in front of her! I carefully carried her thence!  Why do the young ones not throw themselves at me like the old ones do I ask? There were a few others looking I happily showed one young woman around our new photographic exhibition of old Braintree pictures.  She ought to pay but I let her have a quick look as being with a bored half asleep child I thought she needed some intellectual stimulus, from the pics that is, not me!  

Lovely old cameras on show to match the ages covered by the pictures.  Simply by casually mentioning to each woman who looked round the exhibition that she was 'too young' to remember what was pictured I made one or two folks day.  This always appears to have the same response. Often I take them by the hand and welcome them and ask if they have brought their father for a look round the museum, the girls are always pleased by this their menfolk however never appear to be quite so happy, often appearing to be choking somewhat.   

In the market music was being used to entertain the shoppers. While the folks in the pub, right next to the band, were happy about this enquiries at the fruit and veg stall immediately to the right of the picture gave a somewhat less eager response.  Not quite sure what the emotions were as it is difficult to express words when the teeth are grinding together.  Sadly the attempt to picture the three dolts  people on horse costumes did not quite work out.  The nearby Tombola Stall cost me a pound and the ten year old running it was very sympathetic, grumbling she had been unable to give away any prizes so far. I've seen Lotteries run that way I almost but didn't say.

Amongst the stalls in the centre Belly Dancers were on offer.  By 'on offer I mean the girls were belly dancing, I don't mean they were on offer on a stall or anything, please don't misunderstand as I did as you get some very frosty looks. Few Sheikhs live this way as far as I know so where this idea came from I know not, but it was pleasing exercise judging by the audience response. The three appeared to be happy in their work although it was slowing down by the time muggins arrived.  The view from the rear was appreciated more than that from the front it appeared to me.  

All this under typical September wind, rain and sunshine weather.  The weather held for the most part but did force some folks into the museum and paying customers are always welcomed, even if they are concessions!  

   

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Things upon which to Cogitate

Scotch Whisky Guide

Fifty Scots Words  

A must read for intellectuals.

Blind man drives car in town!

Fifty Shades of Gray dumped in Charity Shops everywhere.

So many being dumped the shops canny get rid of them!

It's Dan Brown all over again!

Thankful Villages

The small villages who received back the men who marched to the Great War and received all their boys back once again were called 'Thankful Villages.'  There were few indeed of these.  At the time this report was written, 2011, only 52 such villages could be found in England and Wales.  

No such village was discovered in Scotland or Ireland.

Near me lies a small village with a population of 402 in 1895.  

During the Great War some 32 men died in action,

rather more typical of the time.

Yorkie Dialect

To stop Soub from greetin I add the Yorkshire version

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Look to the Future!

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Pigeon in Mist

Misty morning indicating September is around.  Hot, close, sunny afternoon and evening. Darkness closing in by eight, tiredness closing in by seven!  The pigeons often sit on the roof or anywhere high up after breakfast.  Usually they are just warming up or keeping an eye out for where others are roosting.  In the mist I suspect matey here was just attempting to find his way about.  Mist does enhance a photo, even though it may chill the fingers while taking the picture.

The bug has worn me out in recent days once again, not helped by the disruption to my routine by being at the museum.  By the time I get home and sort myself out I am way out of sorts. Today is spent putting things right, finishing the item I was writing (didn't) and cleaning the windows (didn't), cooking ratatouille (did), and any other thing needed if I can be bothered...  

Life here is no more exciting than that of the pigeon outside.....

Go Away, I'm Tired...

Plognark

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Have a Laugh

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Sunday Snigger

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More Yanks!

Wade

As I began my second breakfast earlier this morning Julie rang in the usual panic from the Museum. Encouragingly all the volunteers are falling like flies, the plague is removing them steadily and my bulk was required.  Just as well I was around as there was only she and I to deal with the visitors.  The usual crowd of eager kids passed through, one or two enquiries, and another party of Yanks.  Julie is the woman running the shop, arranging workshops and chatting to people, she is not the woman to answer historical questions.  I am not sure if she knows who won the war, I would enquire but she might ask "Who came second?"  So she dumps such things on me to seek information.  Luckily I read about the 'Lyon,' a wee while ago and luckily once again we had a descendant of one who sailed from here, this time in 1640.  A glance at the wee blue book revealed a man with the right name and this couple were delighted to find information re their man.  That made my day!   Apparently he has been doing the web search thing and was delighted to be here in this backwater.  All his life, well much of his adult life, he has wondered about the area his kin came from, now he can go home, with a bag full of books, and send years reading about them.  

We get two kinds of Yanks.  The type seeking their ancestors, it appears around eight million descend from the puritans who sailed away from here on those boats, nothing else to do I suppose, or the type who once occupied the many airfields around here, and are now returning the wife they bought then!  

 UST

President Obama, the man that made the USA acceptable after the insane years of George W Bush, has taken on the mantle handed down to him by the position the USA finds itself in as the 'major power.'  Major Powers have been here before.  They may not have had nuclear weapons, submarines or aircraft, but the need to patrol the world and get involved everywhere for reasons of 'self defence' or 'strategic interests,' does not vary.  On occasion this can lead to destruction. Had the major Empires refused to act after the Archduke was shot in 1914 the war may never have happened, the world would be a different place and the empires might exist yet.  Obama insists that for moral reasons the USA must send missiles (pronounced 'missiles) into a foreign power.  Since Thursday when we knew some 250 deaths has occurred the USA have managed to get their friends in the media to believe that in fact well over a thousand have died this way, yet still without offering proof.  Evidence that would stand up in court has not been shown, the main question being if such weapons are in use, who uses them?  We know Assad has the capability, so does the CIA!  We also know the Turks have found Al Queda with Sarin in their border, and they were none too pleased about this.  There is no doubt some vile happening occur in Syria but the rule of thumb in the middle east is it's not 'who is the good guy, both are bad!' 

We cannot avoid the terrible things done here, but who started this conflict?  Rebels fighting Assad, pad for bu Sunni Saudi and Quater.  Who backs them?  Us and UK etc.  Why did this begin?  To get at Iran through the back door and we care nought for the Arabs that die!  No wonder young Muslims are confused!  Why demand action when Chemical Weapons are used yet no action when 100,000 die from 'normal' weapons?  Why worry about Syria when thousand sare dying in Darfur and we have forgotten that war.  30,000 have crossed into Chad recently but little is said on the news here, why?  

I am chortling at the thought that America's 'oldest ally,' France, the home of the cheese eating surrender monkeys, is now the most important part of the US allies, even though they don't want your films because they are not in French.  The willing President Hollande, who has a lower popularity rating than Cameron, is now offering his men to the Americans.  Jolly good show old bean!  He will not go himself obviously, one of his concubines might want him.  The 'special relationship' that the media hark on about, that only existed between Roosevelt and Churchill, and then Roosevelt dumped him for Stalin, has never been that important.  Britain's place in the world is not lessened by France become the er, poodle of the US, the opposite in fact.  The UK can hold its head high.  Something the dogs ensure you cannot do on Paris streets I am informed.

Another Saturday, this meant rushing from the museum to get home in time to watch Dundee United v Celtic.  Gladly I watched this as the stream I picked up had no commentators, once someone pushed the pug in and Ian (I support the OF) Crocker began to spout I considered the game less worthy.  At three I lay on my bed listening to the Heart of Midlothian playing up at Inverness, as always making a worthy attempt against a team top of the league.  We lost but I am not downhearted.  Now I am choosing to watch Mother well v Killie or maybe the Aberdeen v St Johnstone game, all this in a days work. 

Whither Now Mush?

Incredible shock!  Parliament stood up for the nation last night and blew away the Tony Blair fantasist's plans.  Slapped down by a number of his own men as well as the opposition David Cameron failed to get the House to agree to go to war, some say this has not happened to a Prime Minister since 1792!  On that occasion it ended the war against American independence, so it is somewhat ironic that Cameron has failed to be poodle to the USA.  While few at this moment are intriguing against him, their are few alternatives making noises as yet, clearly a PM who cannot convince his party that his intentions were correct is seriously weakened.  Lets face it, we are all pleased about this are we not?   Interestingly the newspapers, including the 'Daily Mail,' screamed about his failure, also quite interestingly I noted 'The Sun' headline was 'Douglas confesses affair,' instead.  Rupert doing his best for his man.  Rupert known for his loyalty to his staff.

What now for Cameron?

The fall out for this decision is also quite interesting.  While the majority of the British public acknowledge their members of parliament, congratulating them on their victory, the USA has been somewhat put out.  When you have been used to working with the UK for so many years, and since Thatchers infatuation with the dementia ridden Reagan the US has looked on the UK as a mere puppet, it is quite difficult to accept the poodle has changed its mind.  The reaction from Washington reveals the intention to attack come what may has been in their minds for many years, and the reason is clear.  Iran threatens Israel, the US does whatever Israel wishes, so Iran must be dealt with.  Now I support Israel also, but not when they do wrong, and Iran under the Mullahs may well be dangerous, but other nations with nuclear missiles are also dangerous, Pakistan for instance.  The desire to attack Syria comes from the attempt to weaken Iran.  A dangerous ploy as this could set the whole region ablaze, and the US, with aid from the cheese eating surrender monkeys, will continue their build up to kill more Arabs, it doesn't matter which, and the type of situation we have seen since the late seventies will continue.

I could go on, I won't but sadly this situation will.  

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Troubled Thursday

How sad to see the tree surgeons in the park again today.  The powers that be have been around checking the state of the trees that have dwelt here for over a hundred and what years.  The report was not good.  Several have become diseased and have to be removed.  Sadly these are amongst the best of the trees.  Whoever planned the gardens in the eighteen somethings really have a good eye for the future.  The trees he planted have survived the family, the school that later occupied the building, two wars, droughts and have now succumbed to disease.  Nothing to do but stand clear as the chap way up top drops the branches to the ground and await the new saplings that hopefully will be planted to replace the fallen.  

Yes the debate continues as we speak, although the outcome has been predetermined by arrangement between the leading men.  The arguments have been put forward on all sides, the members who wish the leaders of their party to notice them ensuring they say exactly what the leaders wish them to say, the 'mavericks,' making sure the leaders on all sides hear their point of view also.  It matters not.  The decision to bomb to Assad to stop him using his chemical weapons (a phrase used repeatedly by Cameron et al to ensure you heard) has already been taken long, long ago of course.  The plans are laid, RAF jets have moved to Cyprus, once again doing the hard work F16's can't manage, and concern for the 250 or so dead in the recent outrage fills the governing classes.  As people in Damascus point out "did they not care for the 100,000 already dead then?"  

Two links worth reading, from one of the UK's better journalists.

Alex Thomson  Alex Thomson 2

Troubled days.  Not only are we heading for a long Iraq 2 but the trees in the park are failing.  On top of this I see people known to me via the media all my life dying off, Cliff Morgan the Welsh sportsman died the other day, aged 83.  The shortness of life suddenly clings and I have not done what I wish I had done.  So many things to change for the better, so many things wrong.  I happened to look at a nearby town on Google Maps the other day and found myself on the road at the edge of town.  The fields spread away into the distance and the view from the neat rows of bungalows would be most enjoyable, had they not all placed net curtains at them!  What do they do this for?  It struck me most of these were retired folks and I realised many of them were just waiting to die, slowly and possibly alone, but many with no purpose any more.  It all seemed so sad as it doesn't have to be like that!  No doubt many are happy enough and Syria does not bother them much.  It will when Cameron taxes their pension to pay for the Tornados and Typhoons he is sending to Syria.

Still, there is yet another football match, tucked away of ITV4 tonight, and having that in the background keeps life ticking over.   

This strange looking (eastern europe maybe) car was in the car park today.  No idea what is was and he appears to be having trouble winding up the rubber band.  I thought at first it was a 'trabant,' but those tough little cars were modelled on old Fiats.  This is a new one on me, but as noisy, though less smokey, than any Trabant I have come across.  I would have spoken to him but he might have wanted a push, so I went for breakfast instead.

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Syria

Here we go.Iraq 2 about to start.  This time we will see something very different.  This time we will suffer badly.  For several years the US has led the 'allies' in undermining the Syrian regime, and whistleblowers around the world have helped us to realise just how much of this activity has been going on for the past few years.  Now our war mongering prime minister, with little realisation of his deeds, and considerably less understanding of the Middle East, wants to become Tony Blair 2 and play puppy dog to the US.

He has no idea what he is doing, does Obama?  Who is leading this attempt to destabilise Syria just to weaken Iran, the US?  The military machine?  Israel?  One thing is clear the debate in the House of Commons tomorrow is already decided, party managers have seen to this, and our depleted forces will be used to do someones bidding, but who's?  For what?  No-one knows.

Chemical weapons?  Call them WMD and you know where you stand. 

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Her Privates We, Frederick Manning

Normally I am not one for novels.  Story books tend to find themselves flung out the door quickly while I look for something worthwhile.  With regard to the Great War I find a great many people writing novels depicting, they say, the situation one man or more went through.  I dismiss them myself.  However when a man who has served in the trenches writes of the war I am more inclined to hear what he has to say and see his description of his war.  The men who served are the men to listen to!  Frederick Manning spent months on the Somme with the 7th Kings Shropshire Light Infantry, a 'Kitchener Battalion,' and claims all the situations recorded in his book occurred to someone, often he himself.   

Manning was born in Australia in 1882 and moved to Lincolnshire in 1903 to live with a family friend who had become vicar at Edenham.  Here he read widely in classics, studied philosophy, and produced a book, 'The Virgil of Brunhild,' others followed but while literary circles admired his writing mass circulation was not to be expected.  In spite of his asthma Manning continued to smok to much, he also spent a lot of time in local public houses an exercise that would lead to troubled times in the future. 

His poor health did not stop him attempting to enlist in 1914.  In spite of London life, where he became regarded as a minor poet and literary critic mixing with some important people from that world, he shared the desire to join the army like so many others of his day.  He was rejected several times until in October 1915 he was accepted by the Shropshires, numbered private 19022. His educated background led him to being selected for a commission, which he failed, he joined his regiment in France during 1916.  The 7th attacked Bazentin Ridge on the 14th of July, the wire was uncut and the second wave were hit by their own barrage, 200 men and 8 officers being lost.  Manning was promoted to lance corporal, possibly after this battle.  In November the battalion attacked the well defended Serre, on the Somme, another trying time. 

Manning received a commission in 1917 as a second lieutenant in the Royal Irish Regiment. This did not suit either he nor the British Army.  Being a bit of a loner, drinking heavily, and failing to adhere to the army way off life he soon found trouble with superiors.  His regard for the men as distinct from officers and his dislike of much military thinking and its effects on the 'poor bloody infantry,' increased his revulsion of much concerning army life.  The effects of trench life were said to be responsible for his drinking and attitude but the commission was resigned in 1918.  He had continued to write, poems, items in magazines and by 1923 Manning took a commission to write the life of Sir William White.  White had been a leading man in the admiralty late in the 19th century.  

Ten years after a war men's minds begin to demand they tell the world what they have endured. Life has, for most, returned to some sort of normality but the experiences have never healed, indeed they never do.  Manning was encouraged to write about his experiences and take advantage of the emotion of the day as books were beginning to fall off the shelves and typewriters were melting under the desperation to publish memoirs   He produced his work quite quickly and published in a limited number as 'The Middle Parts of Fortune.'  The introverted Manning takes the reader inside the hearts of men in battle, and quite unlike any other book we see something of the mind of a real everyday soldier.  The 'soldiers language' was considered too strong for the time and an expurgated version was published as, 'Her Privates We,' the title a quote from Shakespeare. 

Unlike many war books this one contains comparatively little war action even though it begins as an action is ending.  We read instead much of the emotions of a soldier in battle, the relationship of officers to men and vice versa at the time, the attitudes and responsibilities of NCO's, the men who really run an army, and as they withdraw out of the line the scene changes to the dull monotonous routine of army life.  This however is not the somewhat sentimental emotions seen is American movies, here we are confronted with the everyday man.  After the return from the line the men spend a few days settling their nerves, dwelling, without much exchange of confidences, on the stirred emotions within, helped, though they may not think it, by the routine of life.  The dead are an ever present reality for the soldier, one day he may join them. 

As is the way companies break down into two or three men getting together to make their life bearable.  The hero of the book, named Bourne after a small town Manning once stayed in, speaks French tolerably and is used by many to get help from local women regarding obtaining food and wine and having these prepared for them.  One causes Bourne much laughter when lady of the house misunderstands a soldiers use of the word, 'cushy.'  This was a common army word from the Hindi for 'comfortable.'  The woman instead hears 'coucher,' a word which has a differing meaning and results with her fetching the language ignorant solder a slap round the head.  Manning himself 'liked to drink,' as they say and soldiers often while away what is left of their lives in making merry. 'Eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we die,' means more to a soldier in such a war than it can ever mean to another.  

The action, if this is action, continues with Bourne posted to the orderly office. Here again the 'office politics' of army life is centre stage.  It isn't good. Nervous adjutants, greasy sergeant majors, and the strange feeling that a soldier prefers the real army with his pals rather than this 'cushy' number.  At least he avoids all those hard fatigues men at rest are lumbered with.  However army parades continue, seen as needless by many but insisted upon by an officer core with reasons of their own.  One such is interrupted by two shells which take out several men, much to the battalions disgust.  An aircraft is blamed but it soon becomes obvious that it is British shells falling short, a not uncommon occurrence.  Men sent on raids or to the line on fatigues when to all minds such is not possible is made worse when casualties, often popular officers, are injured.  The regiment returns to the line and Bourne and his mates act as runners, suffering the delight of a German bombardment while doing so.  Again this is used to describe both Bournes reaction and that of his companions.  They then return to prepare for yet another chance to go 'over the top.'

What we read in these glimpses of army life is not so much the action but the reality seen from deep within the authors mind.  The mist or fog is described almost as if it is alive, the countryside, even in the dark, allows us to know that men in war are touched by their surroundings like everyone else.  We also note the attitudes in the towns behind the lines, and the class difference that results in unfair treatment of the men. This impersonal, dangerous army, becomes a family for the men, a man once part of a regiment, sharing the dangers, has a kinship, a clan, that outsiders can never enter.  Indeed many men today with more recent experience of warfare understand Bournes mind and recognise their thoughts and emotions as identical to the men of 1916.   Some form close bonds, but many avoid this as men disappear without trace and never heard of again as injury, death or confusion reign in war. Frederick Manning attempts to tell the inner soldier, himself, while contemplating the men around him.  He seeks their unspoken thoughts, he describes their unsaid words, he reveals men as they are.  War books are often full of dangerous action, sometimes sugary, sometimes unbelievable.  This one is the real deal. War is impersonal, men go 'over the top' together but fight alone.  Men work as a unit, for one another, but fight and die individually.  

This is the best book on the war I have ever read!  It does not give all those little details we often seek, but provides sufficient to understand the sights and sounds, the pleasures and daily trials of army routine for the common soldier. Instead in the midst of a great conflict we see the individual whose name appears on the local, unnoticed, war memorial.  On each memorial is a Bourne, a Martlow his young friend, or his pal Shem the Jew, there we find the many sergeants and officers who ordered their lives and led them to destruction.   

This is a great book!  This book gives us the men and their hearts as it really was during their time on the Somme.  

Wiki

Listening to the Wireless

I have spent some time today listening to Radio 4 Extra Factual.  One of the programmes that has held some attention was Tony Hawks and his tale of travelling around Ireland with a fridge. Naturally this particular adventure is not one I, or indeed any sensible person would normally wish to undertake, but for a drunken bet and the possibility of winning £100 Mr Hawks set off! Clearly he had fun and the Irish took him, as they would any other such eejit, to their hearts. Sad to say no trip I have ever taken has been so beneficial. The trip in itself is not one I identify with but the idea of hitchhiking, or some similar adventure is one we all have indulged in or wished we had attempted, when young. 

Around the time I started secondary school I took to jumping on the green SMT buses, the ones that went out of town to far distant lands, and had a day trip to exotic places like North Berwick or Burntisland, even reaching Leven on one occasion.  My folks did not object, although I never told them about the problems or acts of stupidity in which I indulged when out.  This reasonable activity stopped when I took to following the Heart of Midlothian around Scotland.  The hour and a half on the bus journeying in the days before motorways enabled me to see something of the country as we headed to a rain soaked defeat in Dundee, Motherwell or Paisley.  Being out of town was sometimes, well often at that time, more enjoyable than sitting with the sleet in the face singing 'We shall overcome,' which we did, thirty years later.  

On a few occasions I hitchhiked up the A1 in an attempt to reach Edinburgh on the cheap.  So the story told by Mr Hawks of standing in the rain as cars race past, and I without a fridge remember, rang a bell.  The drizzle on the face, the strange whining sound of the tyres, the silence between the bursts of traffic all added to the atmosphere, an atmosphere that got a bit wearing after a while.  If only I copied the chap at the beginning of the M1 near London's 'Staples Corner.'  he stood there with a large notice reading, 'Glasgow - or Else!'  When I think about it the strange attire of the times, floppy hippy hat, long greasy hair, unwashed bar the rain, ill fitting trendy charity shop overcoat, it was little surprise no decent sort wished to stop.  There were however those who did.  One man, well travelled in this world, took me all the way near Baldock, wherever that is, and from there I made my way back towards the north.  As rain descended a traveller on his way to line his pockets selling things nobody really needs gave a lift to myself and one other.  We travelled up the A1(M) at an enormous speed in heavy driving rain until a gentleman from the law held us up and demanded to know why he had picked us up on a 'Throughway.'  Satisfied, the custodian allowed Shumacher to continue his attempt to kill us all.  My companion and I proffered our thanks, took a note of his number (blue Vauxhall Viva EFD 456) and celebrated living.  

Dressing in such a mess manner as 20 years are want to do did not always provide the best of taxi provision.  Apart from the non stopping decent sorts, the lorries with uncaring drivers who only stopped for pretty girls and the rain which appeared only to fall on the spots I chose to frequent, weirdo's were an occupational hazard.  The young man, a trendy who refused to fit into this world's ways, and now probably has become a millionaire by ripping off his workers after realising the middle class hippy dream did not pay, did at least take me almost all the way into Edinburgh, via the old Roman road over the Cheviots.  Not a road I recommend in a Mini Minor.  Dreamer he may have been, a dreamer who allowed me to pay for his breakfast, but he was not the worst.  While I stood at the side of the road, brushing the water from my glasses, my head was filled with daydreams of buxom young women desperate for a prat healthy, almost, young man in the manner off those grubby films shown at the cheap cinemas.  The nearest I got was a builder, a self made man, with a Geordie accent, south of Newcastle late at night. His gleaming new Rover, a good car at that time, reflected his success in life.  His suggestion, worth £5, indicated all was not as it seemed!  He kept his fiver and I made my excuses and left, not easy at 50 miles an hour I can tell you.  

Years later, cycling from Edinburgh to London on the bike worth £18 I again hoped for high adventure and found lots of rain and wind against me and fifty miles of slog a day.  Stopping unhappily in YMCA buildings until I changed to happier pubs or B&B's did not bring much excitement but did allow me to see life in odd places.  The face presented by any town does not reflect what goes on round the back.  Not only do most High Streets look the same, all the plastic shopsfronts deflect from the old buildings in which they are housed, but I suspect today the places I passed through have more charity shops among our wealth and large out of town shopping centres also.  No ageing gayboys, weirdos or well travelled folks on that trip, just sensible people who thought I was weird for cycling all that way but remained friendly just the same.  Mild beer became popular with me then also.  I even had one of my panniers returned by the constabulary after it fell off unnoticed, and a small bottle of the 'water of life,' winged its way in return.  

What an adventure for him, finding my dirty laundry! 

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Rough

Feeling rough, send nurse.....

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Research?

I have spent much of today in northern Israel fighting the 1918 Battle of Megiddo.  Now naturally I realise I must indicate to the less intelligent among the congregation that I was not actually participating in the fighting myself, I was merely reading about it.  I was trailing the advance of the 5th Essex Battalion after the battle of Jaffa and discovered the part they played in this major 'Mother of all Battles.'  Actually while here can I remind those mentioned previously that the 'Jaffa' in question being battled over is in fact NOT an orange, or indeed an orchard of that succulent citrus fruit, it was the town after which those fruits were named that I meant.   Also I suppose I must indicate that I failed to find much depth in what the 5th achieved in this advance as the reports tended to concentrate on the Cavalry taking major targets, the RAF bombing the communications centre and lesser regiments taking all the credit.  Tsk!  

This is a wee job I began some time ago and returning to it I discovered just how illiterate I am! What appeared to be acceptable at the time turns out to be meaningless drivel!  Now I realise what sub editors, or critics if you prefer, are for.  It didn't help that I had lost my place in all the books, mags and websites I had been using and have to spend hours attempting to find them all again.  Bah! 

For some the Great War was spent in France and Flanders, usually bored, often cold, damp and shot at.  For the 5th the war was spent in the delight of Gallipoli, Egypt and 120 degrees of heat in the Sinai as they approached Gaza.  After three attempts and a new commander they finally passed that historic town and ventured north to Jaffa, not for oranges remember.  I have yet to find out if any of the original 649 men and 29 officers made it to the end.  As they left Gallipoli only 6 officers and 100 men had survived that escapade.  As the war progressed the losses were made up with replacements from Britain, often no longer Essex men alone merely anyone who was available.  A quick calculation shows the 5th battalion lost a total of 332 men dead by wars end.  Around three others would be wounded, often more than once, and no count can ever be made of those who died from their exertions during the next forty years, often long before the next war came to be.  

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Sorry, No it doesn't work!

Sorry, no it doesn't work!  Women are not made to present football!  

Two games tonight on ITV4 in the Europa League and leading the chat from two failed numpties in the studio, rambling on about how good English clubs are we find a femal form.  Certainly they are pontificating tonight, in spite of both being filled with foreign Johnnies and Swansea actually being Welsh.  One pundit I suddenly realise is South American. 

The politically correct idea of having a woman present the discussion is not good. Who is she?  I know not as I canny find her name anywhere, or indeed her phone number.  This I say is totally wrong, not failing to find the number or name I mean her being there.  Usually such lassies are provided for one of two reasons, the first being entirely voyeuristic (Yes SKY SPORTS I mean you!), the second being PC TV people. The best example of that was ITV dumping the Yorath woman as she was not very good but the BBC immediately employed her.  She then went on to make programmes about sexism, enlisting Karen Brady (she of the 'Daily Sport,' a deceased paper filled with sex that made the 'Sun' look like 'news') to aid her opinion!  

Tonight we have a nice wee lass with a high pitched voice, ideal for those meaningless early morning 'news' programmes, but WRONG for football!  It may well be that ITV male presenters have the personality of a dead rabbit, and indeed less than half of the intellect, it may well be this girl understands some aspects of the game, but in the end it does not work!  The BBC once allowed a woman to commentate on a match during 'Match of the Day,' it flopped, the voice is wrong!  It doesn't work!  Dogs everywhere barked their opinion I remember.

Let the lass sit on my knee by all means, let her do my ironing, let her indeed become a nuclear physicist or a train driver if she so wishes but do not let her participate in football coverage which just requires someone to fill in between the adverts.  That is a job for men, not girlies!

Bah!   

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Syria Again

Once again we hear of shelling and people killed.  The Egyptian squabbles have kept the Syrian ones from us for a week or two making us forget there were people dying there as TV pictures ignored them.  Only one major story at a time please.  The added stunt this time is those chemical weapons once more.  Several points are made here.
Chemical Weapons inspectors are in Syria at this moment, why would Assad use such weapons now?  We all know he has them.
Assad does not need to use such weapons, he is if anything once more getting the upper hand as far as can be said.
Did the 'rebels' use the weapons themselves, yet experts tell us they do not have the capabilities to use nerves gas.
The effects appear to be from such gas.
Did an ally of the 'rebels' use this gas to blacken Assad? 
The UK and the USA both condemn this action.
The UK and the USA both wish to aid the Islamist rebels yet not aid the army against Islamists in Egypt.  Do they know what they are doing? 

Lots of questions but no answers in this mucky propaganda war, and the people keep on dying.

The media for the most part is still full of emptiness however, deaths in a country of which we know little do not sell papers at this time of year, do they?

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Rough....

Museum, 'On the Beach,' 3,000,000 children, Bouncy Castle, Children, 'Fish for Ducks' and get prizes, more children, 'Knock the Cans for lollipop, lots more children, 'Punch and Judy,' return children to Mums,  clean up, crawl home, sleeeeep......    

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