The Poppy Bows It’s Head

The Poppy bows it's head
As we thank the generation who
With unselfish fear, sacrificed and suffered
And did all that they could do

They were not career fighters
They were fathers and sons
Transported across our globe
Firing life ending guns

They were not career fighters
They were daughters and wives
Digging land, turning lathes,
Manning factories, nursing lives

Never knowing how it would end 
As bombs and bullets rained.
Buy your poppy, bow your head
And be thankful they sustained

©️AMGroves 2023

 

The Reckoning

I’m going to premise this review with a disclaimer. No matter what is written or said on this particular subject matter, it in no way excuses, mitigates or concedes any of the absolute deplorable behaviour of this man nor those around him.

Right then. It was with some intrigue and curiosity that I wanted to watch this drama series. I only ever came across him via my very limited exposure to radio and television across the seventies and eighties, namely Top Of The Pops and Jim’ll Fix It. Even from the hue of a black and white television screen there was something that cringed my child like intuition senses as ‘creepy’, ‘weird’ and ‘odd’. His speech delivery, his clothing, his unkempt look, his language when we upgraded to a colour television only heightened those things. How I’d have felt in his presence, is another matter, quite repulsed I imagine.

The mini series begins with his early dj days at various dance halls of Manchester and Leeds, cultivating a strong following of teens, all eager to hear the new music styles of the fifties and sixties, to kick loose the conformity of post war restrictions and that of their parents generation. The notoriety of his position made him influential , at least gave him an aura of power and status, which in turn meant he could coerce any giggly star struck female his eye took.

As his fame grew, so did his exposure to even bigger stages, namely the BBC with prestigious prime time radio and tv programmes. All the while, being reported upon as a charitable gentleman, who took good care of his Mother. He had the front of someone willing to do altruistic deeds to bring cheer and fun to the downcast and young, such as the Leeds Childrens Hospital and Stoke Mandeville Hospital (leading spinal injuries specialists). He was the Mr Goodguy that parents, politicians, prestigious organisations and the press trusted – but with a slight edge.

As he grew older, remember that by the mid seventies he was fifty, his proclivities grew younger, and following the death of his Mother (a relationship never really explained or detailed) more bizarre and odd.

Maybe the lack of understanding, or the lack of knowledge of the depraved behaviour possible by some men meant that, although there were those who were suspicious, it was quickly glossed over by an authority saying “Oh that’s just his way” or “He’s nothing like that”.

As he grew older and those around him in authority younger, the power of his celebrity status diminished, articles questioning him were starting to appear in the newspapers, he became a figure to be investigated and he could no longer keep the control. Following his death, the true vastness of his behaviours and the decades of activity, along with the numbers of children and dead bodies he violated came to light. Utterly deplorable and shameful.

Watching it from a 2023 perspective it is cringingly uncomfortable. The outlandish acts of what we now know as grooming, the obvious manipulation of people (not just victims, but friends, colleagues, bosses, audiences) that enabled his horrendous acts of abuse, the disgusting sexual gratification that this man acted upon, would be unrepeatable today – thank progress for that.

We are more outspoken, quicker to speak out, children are able to shout up. Whilst undoubtedly there is still those who abuse and molest and use fear as a weapon, it is getting harder for them to hide.

I cannot use the phrase that it is a good watch, an excellent piece of entertainment, but it is gripping, thought provoking, eye opening viewing. With the acting interspersed with real life footage it carefully crafts the eras well.

 

Crowning Quandry

Note to self :: next time your brain thinks of something, keep your gob shut!

It was such an innocent thought. I was sitting in a meeting of local residents and complex neighbours about a planned street party for the coronation, with activities and games here too, my brain pondered “hmm, I could maybe create some bunting, must Google for a pattern, maybe” I googled, I oowed and it began.

A series of red, white and blue crowns strung on a triple thread chain. Simples! Well in truth it hasn’t been that difficult, I made a start in batches of six (for no reason) of each colour, tucking ends as each six were completed (I hate tucking ends) and propped them neatly in the basket. After a while there was a neat bunch of batches in the basket and I realised three rows would fill it, nice and neat, all very mathematical and logical. Merrily I continued reciting the pattern mantra sounding like I was summoning up some dark demonic creature, until the basket was full.

While chating to BFF and doing the mental maths I was taken aback to work out, I had completed one-hundred and eight crowns, tucking in two-hundred and sixteen ends, taking approximately fifty-four hours before I began stringing them together.

So what’s the quandry? Well, it’s the coronation itself.

It is a major historical event, more rare than Royal jubilees, weddings or funerals, such an event of poignant pageantry with links back to centuries, literally with the 12th century anointing spoon. Next level with the regalia and symbolism.

But

It’s the heads the crowns are being plonked on; the history, the reputations, the insecurities, the fragilities, the egos and the politics. It’s been awhile since the U.K. has had a divorced King on the throne, We go back to George IV (Jan 1820-June 1830) who didn’t want his wife, Caroline of Brunswick, crowned Queen Consort so issued divorce papers (which were quashed), she was excluded from the ceremony and died suddenly a couple of weeks after her estranged husband’s coronation. So we go back further to good old Henry VIII who wasn’t divorced when he ascended the throne but sure got the Guinness Record Holder by the time he died (twice divorced). Honestly, soap opera scripts have nothing on the absurdity of human behaviour compared to the historical royals.

Which brings me to Charles and Camilla (and Diana). How things happened and how it was played out through the media has not just tainted the institution it has permanently stained the Monarchy in perpetuity. What sits uncomfortably for me, is the behaviour of C&C before, during and after his marriage to Diana. It is a clear fact of families that relationships break down and couples divorce, and it was inevitable that Charles and Diana would divorce. It is almost certain that the divorced partners will go on to establish new romances, but having ‘the mistress’ prominent and even befriending the naive bride seemed especially cruel.

Okay, so nobody wants to carry the moniker of ‘marriage wrecker’ or ‘adulterer’ nor be reminded of past bad behaviour, but trying to gloss over, control the narrative around a person or situation, that sticks in the throat. Mistakes have and will be made, who knows how things will change.

And finally, one huge favour …… for the love of patient nerves, please hang your Union Flags the right way up 🇬🇧

 

Question Asked Isn’t The Question

I was reminded today about incidents where you have to physically stop your sarcasm and sassy-ness coming out of your mouth.

Many life times ago I worked as a Secretary/Admin/Accounts/Cashier type person at a tourist attraction set in a country park on a Baronial estate, somewhere that had hundreds of years of history and secrecy. The thing about Joe Public on his holibobs is you have to be in semi-holiday mode too, rather than stressed, over tired, is it home time yet mode. Despite the attention given to signage, literature and such, you are constantly asked what sound like obvious questions. Often the question asked isn’t really using the correct words to get the correct answer. For example “can I go out?” what the person is really asking is “If I go out to my car, will you let me back in again without repaying?”

Over time, after the hundredth ask, brain goes into sarcasm mode and you find yourself glazing over as the answer you really really shouldn’t say out loud comes to the forefront. Here are a few common questions and the wrong tired answers…..

Do we have to pay? No, I work for free and the animals don't eat.

is this where we come in? No, it's my front room and you're disturbing my siesta.

What's here? (There's a 20 foot information board beside them) ohh nothing, absolutely nothing.

Do I park there? (Point to carpark) No, you go up to the main road, turn east, go 7 miles, park and get on a bus.

If we come in and we go out? Please do, I want to go home at 6.

Is that the lake? No, that's an illusion, you get a train, turn round three times, recite a mantra and come back tomorrow.

Are you open? (Usually this is a bank holiday Monday) Noooo, we've buggered off to Antigua for the day.

There was only ever one question that stopped us in our tracks and made us go “Huh?” That was – How heavy are your heavy horses? – very, they were big burly Shires and Suffolks, did the person think we were running a horse fat camp.

 

Bombs Building Sandcastles

No…………Body………..Move or sneeze or burp or

Well, dear reader, it’s been an interesting few days. Just up the road from my new abode they are constructing a third river crossing, it’s been thirty years in discussion, three years in building and should be operational by May this year – providing they are no more snaffoo like this week.

Tuesday morning a little left-over from 1942 was dredged up from the river beside the construction area. A one meter long, 250lb bomb, that for the past 81 years has napped through thunderstorms, heavy vibrating ships and boats slowly trundling over it, the rumbling of lorries and vehicles along the road beside it, even the pile driving of the river wall strengthening and outer harbour construction, not to mention the seismic waves when the nearby power station chimneys were demolished.

Police closed roads and began evacuating homes and businesses, placing a 100m cordon around the area. After the Bomb Squad arrived they extended the cordon to mandatory evacuation up to 200m and voluntary but strongly advised 400m zones. This included a small dementia home, who have stayed put but have their minibus and trailer packed with kit and essentials should it become necessary.

The local newspaper has been keeping a ‘live update’ page going throughout the day, giving much needed info such as where evacuation centres are, which roads are closed, the consequential congestion (at one time traffic was moving at the heady speed of a whole two miles per hour!). As well as some typical local media style reporting, like, “Warnings that car windows and camera lenses could crack if….” Proper Pulitzer stuff!

It was decided that a 400 ton sand house would be built around Berty Bomb before any attempts to defuse it could begin. Now 400 ton isn’t a couple of lorry loads and most of Wednesday was taken with getting the sand in place. It looks like sand was compacted into large bags that were then placed, brick like, immediately around the bomb, then a second wall built around that. Then a ceiling of sand was added. A walkway barely wide enough for a beefy bloke or robot to fit through snaked between the sand walls.

All was progressing well until …… “I say chaps, has anyone checked utility maps” slightly blank faces.

“Bally eck, there are gas pipelines under the road!!”

No doubt tea was brewed as tools were downed and a clutch of technicals got their calculators out and recalibrated their thoughts.

Of course, I’m paraphrasing and making light, but how come it hadn’t occurred sooner.

The plan seems to be, after the sand has settled, to send in Robo to start cutting into the bomb, to defuse the detonation circuits and make it ‘safe’, for it then to be taken out to sea, strapped to a better bomb, sunk and then detonated.

Another hold up, water is getting into the area and compromising the sand walls – we’ve all been there with our beach sandcastles. Repairs are needed before Robo can continue his delicate cutting. It seemed the cutting equipment was causing the water build up, so another stoppage and brew up to decide on another option to defuse. The slow burn was the only option left.

And then ………….

Berty unexpectedly went boom.

Thankfully all personnel working the area are unharmed and accounted for. It seems no property or vehicles have been damaged either. Where I am (under half a mile if the crow flies straight) it rattled the newly installed fire doors and echoed through the corridor but the earth didn’t move.

 

The Journey

I was drawn to this film as it starred Timothy Spall and Colm Meaney, two incredible character actors whose work I’ve admired for many years.

The Journey is the fictional dramatisation of a true event, in 2006 the first initial talks of the Northern Ireland Peace Agreement were being held in St Andrew’s Scotland. An incredibly precarious intense meeting between the two highly charged staunch political figures and their associates. However Dr Ian Paisley needed to return to Northern Ireland to attend the celebration of his golden wedding anniversary, bad weather closed the local airport but when a proposal to use a different airport was put to Martin MaGuinness he cited the protocol that he and Paisley must travel together to prevent any attempted assassination plot, thus the two men were driven to the airport where a private jet awaited them both.

Unbeknown to these two figures MI5 had one of their operatives as the driver, and had bugged the car with microphones and mini camera to listen to what the two men might discusse in hope of getting useable intelligence to help the talks progress. Initially neither man can bear to look at the other, neither wanting to give in and look/speak first either. Both despising the history, the past actions, the beliefs and hopes for the future, it seems impossible to find any uncontroversial common ground.

Timothy Spall as The Reverend Ian Paisley, leader of the Democratic Unionist Party, is astounding, his mastering of mannerisms and instantly recognisable voice and vocal manner is remarkable, along with the craft of make up and wardrobe completing an incredible transformation.

Colm Meaney as Martin MaGuinness the republican politician for Sinn Fein and leader of the Provisional IRA is captivating. There is a true sense of battle weary, concern that the movement and ‘the troubles’ are breeding another generation of soldiers without fully understanding the cause and reasoning. Fighting an unwinable civil war.

Even though I grew up during this era and vividly remember the news reports of street warfare, the terrorist bombings and numerous attacks, the core fight was not really understood or known, other than Catholic versus Protestant. Listening as these two enemies eloquently spoke of their experience through life, their earnest beliefs,

Without giving too much away, gradually through this journey there are cracks in their iron resolve, there are moments where the human comes out instead of the political representative, even moments of mirth, and a couple of plot twists which question what one thinks of the other.

As they are about to board the plane the two men speak alone, perhaps this is the moment when they can acknowledge that while they fervently disagree with each other they can at least respect each other’s passion and commitment.

It’s a film I feel I need to watch again, to enjoy what I know is coming and perhaps catch a few nuances I missed first time around.

 

Shouting At Burglars

During the course of conversation I recalled an anecdote which had my carer laughing. Hopefully it will bring a chuckle to your chops too.

When I was about thirteen or fourteen there was an incident. When I lived with my parents we were in a very rural village, lots of woodland and open marshland. In the early hours of a morning my Dad was woken by a sound, thud-thud-thud, reasonably rhythmic in nature. He asked my mum who sleepily thought it was the pile drivers across the marshes, but not that early in the day, unsettled he got up to investigate. I had a pet rabbit Rv who as soon as he heard people movement would thump his back legs against the back of his hutch wanting out into the enclosed courtyard. Rv’s hutch was against the wall of the garage, beside the window of the workshop area and opposite the kitchen window and door, Dad thought it was Rv getting his Thumper action on. So he unlocked the kitchen door and shouted across the courtyard to Rv “Shut up, you noisy bugger!” As he crossed the hallway he noticed that the garage side door was ajar, which was extremely unusual, it was then a penny dropped. Dad went back upstairs to get dressed and when he went to the garage there every yard or so was a hessian sack each with the contents of our big chest freezer, the rhythmic thud being the closing of the heavy freezer lid (it didn’t stay up). As shocking and upsetting as the event was at the time, we couldn’t help but wonder what said burglar thought was going on when he heard a deep voice declaring “Shut up, you noisy bugger!”.

Fast forward about seven years, I was home alone, Mum and Dad were away visiting old friends. At the same time the flat roof of the garage was being replaced. By the end of day one the roof had been stripped back to its rafters and the new boards just laid on top. As I was about to get ready for bed I opened the front door to call the cat in “Kevin! Kee-viiin, move your backside“, as I stopped to see if the ginger and white blob was approaching I heard distinct foot steps on wood echo through the garage. Yikes!! I locked myself in and immediately rang the police. The culprit was caught trying to break in elsewhere. Yet again I can only imagine the shock the fellow must have felt as all of a sudden someone is bellowing a name, telling him to move his backside.

Hee hee…

 

As ancient as…

You that feeling when……. you are watching a black & white movie (Carry On Regardless, 1961) and your carer arrives asks what you’re watching and questions “So when did colour tv start?”

I explained that there were colour films shown in cinemas before there was colour tv because colour over black & white was hideously expensive to make. I thought that colour tv was introduced around the late 1960’s (turns out it was a Wimbledon final 1967 on BBC2) before becoming mainstream in early 1970’s.

This branched on to the fact there were (and still are) tv licenses for either a colour tv or a black & white one, this notion seemed quite startling, along with that many homes did not have a colour TV set until the mid/end of the 1970’s.

When I went on to remark that I remember as a child being told to change the channel because there were no remotes, and there were only three channels broadcasting at set times of the day (kids tv about 3pm til shutdown 11pm), and that at close down the BBC would play the National Anthem – well my carer’s jaw dropped to the floor.

When I said channel 4 didn’t start until 1982 and Sky started 1989 she remarked that she found it hard to believe these things happened not that long before she was born (1998).

Talk about feeling ancient!!

 

Newer History

From time to time I surprise myself when some profound statement emerges from my fingertips and such an occurrence took place last week.

A pal had posted about the annoyance she felt at the hypocrisy she sees online, that groups while complaining about history, use history as validation and evidence for their actions. I saw her point and responded

History is history, we should learn from it, all of it, the good, the bad, the ugly, the triumph and the disaster, the compassionate, the whole, it’s ripples and it’s consequences. After all the shouting, breast beating and hash tagging, what will have changed for the better – very little quite possibly and that’s the saddest footnote for history to teach.

Me on Facebook

There is currently a tv advert for Persil which includes the phrase “hashtags can’t plant trees and tweets won’t clean oceans”, making reference to actions speak louder than words. Has social media turned the majority of users into outspoken criticisers, has it given the multitude a venting platform for vitriol, perhaps that’s a subject for another day.

As we move into black history month (it’s October in the UK) I agree with the thought that more perspective is needed regarding how history is taught and what history is taught. History is a subject that will keep growing, look at the past hundred years or so, what parts should be picked out to teach, the speeches of Martin Luther King Jnr alongside the riots and protests of Black Lives Matter; the horrors of the Holocaust and Russian pogroms and the teachings of Mahatma Ghandi; the nursing prowess of Mary Seagrove and the South African apartheid movement. The advances of industry and science and the violence of protests, riots and oppressive regimes. It’s sheer volume means we cannot cover it all.

The recent yelling and vandalism regarding the historical slave trade has highlighted a gaping hole in subjects covered, the actions taken have been destructive rather than constructive. I’m not sure if this programme is available worldwide but the tv series “The House History Built” is excellent, it traces the history of all who lived in one house across centuries.

Nothing is clear cut, everything exists in the grey area.

 

Destructive Anger Destroys

Over the past few days we’ve witnessed more and more global unrest and calls for changes along with recognition of how the black community has been systematically treated. The death of George Floyd, along with far too many other coloured people, in the USA is a tragic, horrific thing, but it has lit a fireball that might yet engulf thousands of more lives. It was a wrong action by that officer, others were wrong around him, that caused a death; and there have been similar actions by other officers in the past. Thankfully very very few in the UK compared to some educated countries, but nowhere is immune.

The Black Lives Matter movement has a wish (not using the word agenda, it has connotations) and in the twenty first century, forward thinking, prosperous West, you’d think we’d be able to get it right more than wrong.

Watching the marches, the protests, the taking the knee, it is a commendable grand gesture but how does it teach, enlighten or instruct. I am fully aware that these events contain a few hell bent on chaos and destruction and a few more who get polluted by the mob mentality, but I am yet to understand how defacing buildings, statues, plinths, memorials will teach, enlighten or educate.

Where do I learn the other side of the story without being branded a racist, a privileged white b*itch, or such like, or being shouted at “you’ll never understand coz you’re not black”. Violence, rage, destruction, aggressive language etc will not help change minds, or teach a better way, it will fuel the old assumptions and stereotypes. It will instil fear and anxiety.

There was a particular image that enraged me to utter gutteral wanton disgust … it made me so angry I wished true, long term harm upon another person. Here is that image.

This is the Cenotaph. It stands in Whitehall, London. There are only three words on it “The Glorious Dead” and we see someone trying to set fire to the Union flag. The Cenotaph is a memorial to all those who died in the World Wars, all those who enlisted, all those who volunteered, all those hundreds of thousands who were conscripted, from ALL nations of the Commonwealth (last time I checked that warmly, willingly, includes ethnic minorities). For the millions who fought, suffered, were injured, who died, defending and protecting many rights and freedoms people so quickly abuse today. This person saw fit to trample and abuse that – my cynical sarcastic mind wants to ask “Is it because the Portland stone is too white?”

So what will the consequences be, for me ….. Well, I’ll be blunt and honest, it will scare me. What if as I go to enter a door and don’t stop to let the ethnic person go first, am I about to be called racist. If I hold the door to let the ethnic person go first, am I exerting my white privilege. If I enquire for explanation or understanding about an opinion or action, am I being confrontational. I fully realise that not everyone is carrying that hair triggered chip on the shoulder but because so many do, how do I avoid getting snapped at, or flattened with a knee at my neck.

Dear World, I myself alone have no control on what happened during the past two-three hundred plus years or more. In that, I am powerless. I can only be responsible for my personal actions of the past five decades (and a smidge bit, very slim but more). I hope I have always been equally respectful and friendly to everyone I have ever encountered, for that is the best I can do.