Bad Days

Should you ever consider that you are having a bad day think on this: Norman (a showman friend) called last night, he's just returned from an intended several weeks in Spain - or at least until the money ran out. A few months back he and his aunt were burgled and their collection of Royal Dux figures were taken. The insurance company forked out £40k.

Because his aunt didn't want to stay in the caravan that had been broken into he sold it and bought another. He also bought himself a BMW car and a 30' x 8' x 11' motorhome. Within days he crashed the BMW and thought he'd written it off, but the insurance said no and shelled out £10k to have it put back on the road.

Having had a solar panel fitted to the roof of the motorhome and a petrolyte gas tank fitted (petrol does 10 miles to the gallon, petrolyte gas 20 mpg), Norman set out for Spain. Once in Spain, having wiped out four wing-mirrors of other cars he topped it off by backing into a brand-new, latest model, sports car and reducing the back end to scrap metal. This was an irate owner and police job. Driving away, eventually, he wiped out yet another wing mirror, only this time the owner was on hand and gave chase. Prolonged negotiations took place.

Having by now run out of money, Norman headed for home. Driving via Bournemouth and Brighton he demolished yet more wing mirrors, a tree and several wheelie bins (garbage bins on wheels). He decided to visit friends in Stoke on Trent. In the Handsworth (Birmingham) area he fell asleep and sideswiped another car. The owner was a large, very large, black West Indian Rastafarian with attitude! This gentleman removed Norman's keys and wouldn't give them back until several 'guilty' statements had been made and indemnity given.

Norman proceeded to Stoke and on arriving at his friend's was surprised to see a neighbour rushing out waving her arms at him. On dismounting he too was alarmed to see smoke gushing from below the bonnet. Without hesitation he dived back into the motorhome and retrieved his valuables, including his clothes, just as the fire brigade arrived. The motorhome was a write-off.

Later, now driving his repaired BMW, he stopped at a cash point in Birmingham to get some money… he left the car unlocked! On his return he found his new leather jacket gone and the radio! He now has four insurance claims against him, plus his own claims for the motorhome and the car radio. What do you think of his chances of getting a reasonable insurance quote next time?

A Small Boy Excited

Many friends loved the WW2 story of my childhood days and asked for more. I tried to explain that these were childhood memories where despite the murder and mayhem of the bombing raids to a child the most important things were the shortage of fruit and sweet rationing! Included here is a poem by my cousin, Peter, who lived about half a mile from where we lived, it does explain perfectly how the war affected a child and I couldn’t have put it better myself.

		A Small Boy Excited Mick slinks slyly into our shelter Mongrel ears have heard the drone Then sirens howl and after We hear what Mick has heard alone A small boy excited Recognise the Junkers, Heinkel or Dornier Whilst scrambling for the shelter Flattened ears, fur and rolling eyes Warm blanket encouraging reassuring lies A small boy excited Silver paper enemy bombers shower To confuse the British radar Malleable, shiny and good for sculptor Gathered into shiny snowballs to enrapture A small boy excited Crump, crump a house has gone Crump, crump there's another one Shivering not from cold Mom and dog if truth were told A small boy excited Tracer bullets past the window A small boy running to see Yanked back a mother's smack The boy struggling to be free A small boy still excited Shrapnel through the kitchen door Plaster showering o'er the floor Tracer bullets piercing a shed so near Another siren sounding the all clear A small boy excited Emerging dog shaking imaginary water Curses unspoken but not by the youngster Sweep, sweep up the plaster Cheerful doggie tail and so to slumber A small boy excited With other boys and not a thought Of death, misery and disaster The houses rubble scoured for plaster To use as chalk their only thought Lots of small boys excited. By Peter G Pigden (Aged 68 years)

One of my most exciting memories occurred one night when an incendiary bomb crashed through the glass of the veranda roof, landed on the concrete patio floor and DIDN’T EXPLODE! A visiting uncle on leave from the army threw himself on the floor yelling “DOWN EVERYBODY!” Grandad, stepped over him muttering “Get up you silly bugger, you’re frightening the kids.” Far from frightened we ‘kids’ (myself and my mate, Dennis) peered out from the steel table shelter built in the living room and watched in excited awe as Grandad opened the veranda doors, stepped out onto the patio and picked up the incendiary bomb. He then proceeded to WALK down the garden followed by yells of “For God’s sake run!” which he calmly ignored. At the bottom of the garden he dumped the bomb on the compost heap and tipped a fire bucket of sand over it. At that moment it exploded and set fire to absolutely nothing! Grandad returned completely unfussed and said to my mother “Isn’t it time you got the kettle on?”

I should add that whenever the sirens sounded, my mate Dennis was brought around and we were consigned to the table shelter, a place that we had very thoughtfully packed with goodies during the day – sweets, fruit from the garden and anything else we could lay our thieving hands on! The rest of the family simply sat around and chatted, played darts or cards and drank beer! A wonderful attitude to war.

Poetry 12

The Fantasy of Reality There was a time, I don’t quite remember when, My mind worked ahead of me At things I scarcely knew In a world of my imagination, Where only nice things happened And horrid things were few. I think they called it fantasy, Though to me it was all new, My friends were real, The fields were real, But reality was overdue. I still play games inside my head, But now I write them down And fantasy becomes reality In a world of words renown. "Once upon a time..."

The Last Sabre Charge of the Yeomanry - 1917 Under the African sun On the burning sands of the Huj. Armed with sabres and incredible courage They charged rather than run. The men of the Worcestershire Yeomanry Faced twenty-thousand men, Three Howitzers, twenty-one artillery guns, The weaponry of the Hun. They were told ‘Just point your weapon and aim Let the speed of your horse do the rest.’ Blades slashing and flashing they charged Like demons they rode, setting the desert aflame. Sand billowing, voices screaming in the sun, They charged a superior foe, Fear entered the enemy and even before the end Every Yeoman was a hero as the enemy started to run. One hundred and eighty one cavalry Scattered the Turks across the desert And Sabred alongside their weaponry Killed all the artillery men. Thirty-six heroes died and fifty-seven were injured, But by a hundred years or more They set back the Ottoman Empire, A feat unequalled in war.

Worcestershire Yeomanry at Huj in the Sinai Desert at 1.30pm on 8th November 1917, just before the final British Cavalry Charge against guns

Additional Information: For a personal recollection of the Cavalry Charge at Huj, by Corporal Darcy Jones of the Worcestershire Yeomanry, please click here.

The Economics of War “Send ten thousand men.” “Make sure you’ve got the body bags To bring them back again.”

The end of the beginning Somewhere there was a beginning, But I am near the end. Could it be, in this frenetic, confused world, That I am nearer the beginning than the end? Is the end really only the beginning?

Unspoken The loneliness of one Is nothing compared to the loneliness Of two who do not speak. That is a loneliness That withers up the soul.

Shadows Night, when all the shadows Become lurking dragons Waiting to pounce. And the shadows of the mind Become unspoken horrors And overwhelming obsessions.

Brute force Brutes blare their artificial suns, Hissing, spitting carbon-arcs; A cacophony of chiaroscuro.

Silence There is silence, Then a whisper of wind Shivers the leaves. The Wind becomes a light breeze Twigs rustle and dance in happy obedience. The wind encouraged by this dance Grows ever stronger, more demanding, Branches begin to sway and bend Until entire trees are thrashing to the Tune of an increasingly dominant wind. Anger is emphasized by a darkening sky That growls and laughs harshly. Black clouds applaud loudly With flashing drumsticks of light. Encouraged by the thunderstruck sky The wind turns into a howling hurricane, That sends man’s toys tumbling Around like so much rubbish. Cars and caravans roll and clatter around, Tiles fly from the roofs of buildings and Rafters crack and sway whilst man himself Scurries from hiding place to hiding place, Finding none from the probing fingers Of the fiercesome shrieking wind. Trees tear their roots from the earth, Their death throes crashing and thrashing Everything in their stricken falling. Walls and buildings crumble and rumble into A nothingness of a land laid to waste. The wind pauses to look around at the destruction It has wrought and passes on, nature triumphant. And then in the aftermath There is silence.