Martello Defences.....

Martello Towers….

I was recently looking at an old print of the beach at my home town just South of Dublin and saw what I knew to be a Martello Tower. It was situated not far from the beach but is no longer there. It was used during the Great Famine to distribute food to local families. I also knew that there was another one close to the harbour, which is supposed to be owned by Bono from U2. You can see parts of it and it is supposed to be a beautiful home.

Once my curiosity was aroused, I began to read and search for more details and found that these towers represent an intriguing period of ‘British’ history. Ireland was under the control of Britain at the relevant time 1805……

I also knew from my fishing trips to the Kent coastline that there are many towers dotted along the English Channel and along the south coast of England. However, I did not know that they were dotted all over the then British Empire. 

On 7th February 1794, two British Warships, Fortitude and Juno attacked Mortella Point in Corsica where they pounded the fort for two days with cannon. Although damaged, it withstood the barrage. It eventually fell when it was successfully attacked from the land instead of the sea. 

A report by the Captains of the ships was passed to the Admiralty in London praising the structure. It seems that they got the design correct but seem to have misspelt the name. Henceforth, they became known as Martello Towers.

When war broke out between Britain and the French under Napoleon, the British decided to fortify all strategic points, especially those on the south coast of England with such towers. A chain numbering 105 were built along the coast of Kent, Essex, Sussex and Suffolk as a priority. Others were subsequently built throughout the British Empire. Along the East Coast of Ireland, many were built to protect the port of Dublin.

However, France also copied the design and built several as did the United States Government. Others were built in far distant places for example, Australia, Canada, Minorca, South Africa and Sri Lanka.

They continued to be built up to the 1850’s long after the war with Napoleon was over. In actual fact none of them ever saw combat. When the threat of a French invasion had passed, many were taken over by customs and coastguard in the fight against smugglers. Others were washed away by sea storms. A few were used as target practice for the latest artillery.

A great many have now been demolished but others are kept as museums, historical sites and indeed beautiful homes. Several isolated towers are in a derelict condition.

During an attack, it had been proved that the strength of the structure protected it from artillery by its dimensions. They were normally circular, 36 – 45 feet in diameter with a single doorway 15 feet above the ground. The average height of each tower was thirty feet. 

Entrance was gained by the use of a ladder. They were normally two storey buildings with a flat room upon which was placed a two and a half ton cannon capable of firing a twenty four pound shot a mile out to sea. Two smaller cannon were also sited on the roof. The circular roof gave 360-degree cover in all directions.

The walls were about thirteen feet thick on the sea facing side and eight feet thick on the landward side. They were formidable buildings and those that have been maintained remain as structurally sound as the day they were built.

A garrison of one officer and twenty-four soldiers could man each tower.

-------Mike-----

Lord Haw-Haw.....

“Jermany Calling, Jermany Calling”………….

The infamous call sign during the Second World War of ‘Lord Haw-Haw’, broadcasting German propaganda to the world…..

Many people will immediately think of William Joyce when the ‘nickname’ is quoted. However, the name was given to several announcers at the time, and one in particular, Wolf Mitler, had a voice similar to that which is joked about as the ‘English Upper Class’ accent. Joyce was unable to say ‘Germany’ correctly and the call always came across as ‘Jermany calling’.

Throughout the war years, broadcasts were made in English and were listened to by over a million British and Irish citizens. In fact during the early years, it was the best source of reliable information as that given out by the British War Department was usually delayed several days and heavily censored. In contrast, towards the middle and end of the war, Germans, including some of their generals listened in to British broadcasts for the same reason.

Another interesting fact is that the name Lord Haw-Haw was first given to James Brudenell, the 7th Earl of Cardigan, and a 19th Century British General – (he who led The Charge of the Light Brigade at Balaclava), by a British journalist after the ‘Charge’.

The name was resurrected when the German broadcasts started on 18th September 1939. They continued until 30th April 1945 when the British Army took Hamburg. For all intents and purposes, the nickname Lord Haw-Haw now refers to William Joyce and a couple of other announcers whose voices could be confused with Joyce.

Joyce’s life and indeed his death are very interesting for several reasons. Most people thought him to be Irish but in fact he was American. He was born on 24th April 1906 in Herkimer Street, Brooklyn, New York City. His mother was an English Protestant and his father an Irish Catholic who had taken out American citizenship. When he was young, the family returned to Galway in the West of Ireland.

He received a good quality Catholic education but nonetheless he and his father were fiercely Unionist and pro-Britain. Joyce later claimed that he had assisted the dreaded ‘Black and Tans’ in his early years and had become a ‘wanted’ target by the IRA.

He claimed that after a failed assassination attempt on him in 1921 when he was 16, he left Ireland for England where he continued his education. His family followed two years later. During his college education, he became deeply interested in all aspects of fascism and in fact joined the British Fascisti of Rotha Lintorn-Orman. At one of their meetings in 1924 whilst acting as a steward, he was attacked and slashed with a razor. This left him with a permanent deep scar from his ear to the corner of his mouth. This made him more committed to the fascist cause as he believed that the attackers were "Jewish communists".

In 1932, he joined the British Union of Fascists under Sir Oswald Mosley and became a frequent speaker at their meetings. He quickly gained a name for his power of oratory. In 1934, he was made director of propaganda and later deputy leader. Not only was he a prolific speaker but he was also good with his fists and boots. He was regularly seen to be in the thick of the many fights that followed their meetings and speeches.

In 1937 he was sacked from his paid position with the BUF and he tried to set up a breakaway party, the National Socialist League. It never gained strength unlike Mosley’s BUF.

In August 1939, having received a tip that it was intended to arrest and detain him under Defence Regulations, he fled with his wife to Germany. He became a naturalised German in 1940. He could not find any employment until he met a Mosleyite sympathiser who got him an audition as a radio announcer and scriptwriter at German radio’s English service.

In 1939 he began ‘his’ broadcasts and although the nickname ‘Lord Haw-Haw’ had been given to another broadcaster, it quickly became Joyce’s trademark. His regular call for the British to ‘surrender’ was generally met with jeering by the British public and Joyce became the butt of many Music Hall comedians’ jokes.

His broadcasts continued until almost the end of the war and the final one was transmitted on 30th April 1945. It was believed that it had been tape-recorded earlier whilst Joyce made good his escape. The next day, British soldiers made their own broadcast from the station - ‘Germany calling’ including the fact that it was the British Army speaking……

Besides his broadcasting, Joyce had also tried to persuade British Prisoners of War to form the British Free Corps but was basically unsuccessful.

Not long afterwards, he was captured by British forces near the German-Denmark border. He was thought to be German until his voice betrayed him. During his arrest he was shot in the leg when the soldiers thought he was going for a gun. He was in fact reaching for a false passport after one of the soldiers asked if he was ‘Lord Haw-Haw’.

He was returned to Britain where he was charged with three counts of HighTreason: 1. ‘aid and assist the enemy’: 2. ‘aid and comfort the King’s enemies’: 3. ‘aid and assist the enemy’. However, this is where it gets interesting.

When processing the court papers, Joyce’s American nationality came to light. This gave him every chance of being acquitted as he could not be convicted of betraying a country that was not his own. However, as with a previous Treason trial (See Sir Roger Casement), the Attorney General found a ‘loophole in the law’. He argued that Joyce had used a British Passport and until it had expired he was entitled to Diplomatic Protection even in Germany. This argument was accepted and all appeals, including to the House of Lords, failed. He was sentenced to death……..

It was further argued that ‘the punishment did not fit the crime’ as his death sentence equated him with those in charge of the various concentration camps.

Joyce was hanged on 3rd January 1946 at Wandsworth Prison. He was aged 39. His wife Margaret returned to England but was never charged with any offence. She died in Soho in 1972 reportedly from alcohol abuse.

Finally, in 1976, Joyce’s body was reinterred at the Bohermore Cemetery in County Galway, Ireland.

---------------Mike----------------

Keep Your Eyes Off Her....

This is a lovely old Dublin Song with a moral.  As an explanation, ‘Twang’ is hard toffee and ‘mot’ is girlfriend….I hope you enjoy it………………..

"The Twang Man"

Come listen to me story, it's about a nice young man
When the militia wasn't wantin', he dealt in hawkin' twang
He loved a fair young maiden as fair as any old midge
And she kept a treacle depot one side of the Carlisle bridge

Well, another came a courtin' and his name was Mickey the Baggs
He was a commercial traveller and he dealt in bones and rags
Well, he took her out to Sandymount for to see the waters roll
And he stole the heart of the Twangman's mot playin' 'Billy In The Bowl'

Now when the twang man heard of this he flew into a terrible rage
And he swore be the contents of his twang cart, on him he'd have revenge
So he stood in wait near Saint James' gate till the poor old Baggs came up
And with his twang knife, sure he took the life of the poor old gather them up

So now yez have heard me story and I hope ye'll be good men
And not go chasing after the Twangman's mot or any other ould hen
For she'll leave you without a brass farthing, not even your old sack of rags
And that's the end of me story of poor old Mickey the Baggs

There is a lovely version on Youtube by

Ronnie Drew of the Dubliners

on this link

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RzU-VGWjHGU

--------Mike-------

A Shaggy Dog Monologue.....

Providence

Ernest R. Heale, Nosmo King & Ernest Longstaffe (1938)

Have you ever been broke, just to the wide

With just what you stand up in, and nothing beside?

Living on scraps for best part of a week,

When you can't get 'em and know where to seek.

I've been like that on a cold winter's night

When the streets were deserted with nothing in sight

But a slow moving Bobby, whose job is to see

That the public's protected from fellows like me.

Who get put inside to answer the Court

Why they're wandering round with no means of support.

It always strikes me as a queer sort of joke,

To pick on a man just because he is broke.

Do they think he enjoys wand'ring round in the rain,

Soaked thro' to the skin with a dull aching pain,

Thro' his stomach forgetting its last decent meal,

Just praying for the time when it's too numb to feel.

Life isn't worth much when you get to that state

Or just waiting to die with nowhere to wait -

I remember the time, it's a long while ago,

When I stood on a bridge, with the river below.

The last food I'd had was two days before

And I never expected I'd need any more -

That night was the worst that ever I've known,

With a dirty wet fog that chilled to the bone.

I set my teeth hard, and I set down my heel,

On the rail that my hands were too perish'd to feel,

When a snivelling pup came out of the fog

And whimpered at me - just a scrap of a dog.

Bedraggled and dirty like me, just a wreck,

With a sad little face on his poor scraggy neck.

A few seconds more and I would have died

But he just licked my hand and I sat down and cried.

And I covered the poor little chap with my coat

And I carried him off with a lump in my throat.

I took him along to the one place I knew

Where they'd give him a bed and a biscuit or two.

They didn't feel keen on taking him in

But the sergeant in charge gave a bit of a grin

When I told him the dog could do with a meal

`I'll fix him up, but how do you feel?'

It may be, perhaps, that the Sergeant had seen

The state I was in, I wasn't too clean,

The hunger and cold that I'd suffered all day

Exhausted my limits - I fainted away.

Well, they fed me and slept me, and gave me two bob,

And the following day they found me a job.

I've worked ever since and put a bit by,

I'm comfortable now and I don't want to die.

I've a nice little house in a quiet little street,

With a decent sized garden that's always kept neat,

I've worked there a lot when I've had time to spare,

And I'm so proud of one little corner that's there.

With the pick of the flowers round a little old stone

That stands in a corner, all on its own.

It bears an inscription - not very grand –

The letters are crooked, but you'll understand -

That I wasn't too steady, I couldn't quite see

At the time that I carved it - quite recently.

Here are the words that I carved on the stone:

`Here lies my best friend - when I was alone,

Hopeless and friendless, just lost in a fog,

God saved my life... with the help of a dog.

--------------------

Ability to See the Future.......

A Frightening Prophecy….

In the 1600’s Brian Rua Ui Cearabhain, from Achill Island, north-west Mayo, in the West of Ireland, foretold that in the county there would one day be seen "Carriages on iron wheels, blowing smoke and fire, which on their first and last journeys would carry corpses". This was many years before the age of steam or trains. Unfortunately, nearly 300 years would pass before both parts of his prophecy would come true…….

Achill Island is a beautiful island on the West Coast of County Mayo, which sticks out into the Atlantic. It is joined to the mainland by a bridge known as Achill Sound. I have enjoyed some of the most wonderful holidays of my life there in my youth. It is one of the most beautiful places I have ever visited……… 

It was an impoverished community as the land was poor quality being very stony and boggy. In order to earn a living many of the island’s young men and women emigrated. Most of the young men joined the British Army. The young women entered service as housemaids throughout Ireland and Britain. Those who did not do so would, during the months of June to October, sail to Scotland where they would gain work as potato pickers. The work was known as ‘tattie-hoking’…….

On 4th June 1894, thirty-two young men were making their way in a sailing hooker from Achill to Westport where they were to board a steamer for onward journey to Scotland to take part in the annual potato picking. As they neared the quay in Westport too many of them leaned over the starboard side of the hooker to get a closer look at the waiting ship causing the hooker to capsize. Thirty-two were drowned…………………

Their bodies were taken home to Achill on the first train to travel on the new Westport to Achill line thereby fulfilling Brian Rua’s first part of his prophecy. 

Forty-three years later, on 16th September 1937 at Kirkintilloch, just north of Glasgow in Scotland the second tragedy occurred.

A group of Achill Islanders, men women and boys were almost finished the potato-picking season having travelled all over Scotland following the harvest. It was not uncommon for the single men to be locked in barns or sheds to ‘keep them away from the local girls’.

The ‘gang’ was under the leadership of a foreman named Patrick (Pat) Duggan and by coincidence, the previous year a similar gang foreman was a Thomas (Tom) Duggan who also led an Achill Island gang. That year they had played a football match against a local team, which resulted in a large-scale fight. It was later suggested, but never proven, that the fire was a case of arson that went beyond that which was intended.

The foreman Pat Duggan, his son and the female members were sleeping in a cottage whilst the other men slept in a cowshed, known as a ‘bothy’, which was padlocked. At about 1am Duggan heard the crackling of flames and raised the alarm. The females made their escape from the cottage. All attempts to gain entry to the bothy failed. The Scottish Overseer who held the keys to the padlock was awoken at 1.15am but by the time he got to the shed it was fully ablaze with the roof collapsed.

Some of the females were relatives of the trapped men and they became hysterical. Later that night the dead bodies were recovered. The average age of the young men was 16, the youngest being 13. News of the tragedy was relayed to Achill by telephone and grief engulfed the island……………

Arrangements were made for a funeral in Scotland until a telegram was received there which read ‘Beir Abhaile ar marbh’ – (Bring home our dead). Over 10,000 people lined the Quay at Glasgow as the coffins were put aboard a Dublin bound ship. Again at the Dublin port there were over 6,000 people lining the quay…………..

A Relief Fund was set up which resulted in the sum of £18,233 being collected. This was divided between the survivors and the victims’ families. (In modern terms this would be equivalent to almost one million pounds sterling).

They were taken by train to Westport where they were transferred to the Achill Island train and taken home.

The line had in fact been closed for some time but was reopened to convey the bodies of the victims to the island where they were laid to rest close to the victims of the previous tragedy.

That was the last train on that line thereby fulfilling Brian Rua’s prophecy to the full…………..

--------Mike--------

Relax.....

To Dream the Impossible Dream..

It was all a dream….

"Relax" the hypnotist spoke in a calm, low voice that was in fact quite soothing, "relax, you have nothing to fear. Let your eyelids go heavy and you will fall into a soft calm world where you will have no problems, no pains. Relax".

I had volunteered for the medical research project merely on a whim. The family doctor had given me the letter of introduction as she thought it might help me to relax when having my blood pressure taken. 

You see, everytime I see her take out the apparatus to measure it, I know darn well that my pressure rises considerably. Someone said that it is known as the ‘White Coat Syndrome’. So, I decided to try - just for the promised relaxation it would teach me. 

I was not even sure that it was going to work on me, but I must admit, I have never felt calmer in my whole life.

Suddenly, the sun is shining and I am in a beautiful sub-tropical part of the world. I don't recognise anyone or anything. I suppose it is one of my dreams, but on this occasion, it seemed too lifelike.

Again, suddenly, as if by magic, I am in the presence of 'The Man', none other than Nelson Mandella himself. He was talking on the telephone as I sat close to him in a cosy sitting room.

"OK, Bob. I'll stroll. You fly. You Irishmen are always in a hurry to get something done, or to get somewhere". I imagined that it was Bob Geldof who is exactly as Nelson had described him. He put down the phone and turned to me "Pleased to meet you Michael" he spoke in that lilting Afrikaner accent of his "and how can I help you?"

I can tell you, and I really mean this, if you were ever to meet the great man, the moonbeams will shoot out of your fingertips, your toes and the ends of your hair. He is electrifying and yet he has the charm of an old friend.

"Thank you for seeing me Mr. Mandella", I tried to speak without too much emotion in my voice, but I honestly think I failed. "Of all the people in the world I would choose to meet, it must be a dead-heat between your goodself and the Dali Lama". He gave me his best smile and the twinkle in his eyes ensured me that he was not offended by what I had said. "Please call me Nelson," he asked "and don't think for one moment that I am in any way offended by the comparison. He was my first choice until I met Pope John Paul. Now that was a great man, may the Lord rest his soul".

"Since you spent the best part of your life on 'Robben Island', Mr. Mandella", I could not bring myself to call him by his first name "you are still an amazing man. You are at peace with the world and have brought South Africa together as one. I am amazed at your achievements in such a short space of time". "I am nothing special, Michael", he spoke quietly, and I sensed that he spoke the truth in his opinion "but I think it's the drama in life that makes you strong".

"Was it the fact that you had a strong woman behind you during your imprisonment?" I asked, knowing too well that he was no longer married to Winnie. He looked me straight in the eyes and for a moment, only for one moment, did the sparkle die down. He continued "I mean no offence to her but I must in all truth, say that she's this highly-strung, overamped, controlling, know-it-all neurotic who let the power she gleaned from my name, go to her head. She thought she was above the law. That is the whole point, Michael", he tapped the table gently "the rule of law, Michael, that is the only way that a Nation can survive".

'Well, wait a minute" his words had struck a sore point in my reckoning "that changes everything! You see, I remember that you were once a terrorist, in a terrorist movement, dedicated to the overthrow of the South African government". "Ah, now Michael we come to pure politics" he was smiling at my suggestion "one man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter. When fighting a totally undemocratic government, one that was elected by less than ten percent of the population, a fight-back is not only inevitable, but it is downright necessary".

I decided to get away from politics for fear of upsetting the good man, but the smile on his face indicated to me that he was not yet ready to do likewise.

"Take for instance your own country" he pointed directly at me and with a sincere look on his face, continued. "Back in the sixties, you cannot agree with what was happening in Northern Ireland against the Catholics. It was unjust, it was unfair and to many, it was illegal. What they did could be justified by some people but sadly I must insist that I am not one of those".

"That makes two of us then Sir" I insisted. "We agree then" he said "not in your mind or indeed mine, were they freedom fighters or merely terrorists. On both sides, I might add". He was in full flow and I did not dare interrupt him. "Unthinkable good things can happen, even late in the game. It's such a surprise when it does", he sat back in his chair and sipped at his glass of water.

"May we have peace among ourselves and within our countries" he said and quite honestly, I almost said 'Amen' and blessed myself.

I suddenly heard a voice from a distance, as if it were echoing around the mountains back home in Ireland. As it got louder, I began to awaken and realise where I was in fact. Back in the room with the hypnotist.

So to end up my little adventure, all I can say is that if Nelson Mandella did not actually say what I had imagined, he should have done so, and if he ever did, I would agree with every single word that the great man uttered..........He is one of history’s Great Men…

--------Mike--------

Bless Me Father......

Problems on Friday…

John Murphy, a Protestant moved into a large Catholic neighbourhood.

On the first Friday of Lent, John was outside grilling a big juicy steak on his barbeque grill. Meanwhile, all his neighbours were cooking fish or good old-fashioned eggs in accordance with the Church’s rule on fasting – with no meat on Lenten Fridays.

This went on Friday after Friday.  Halfway through Lent, the neighbourhood men got together and decided that something had to be done about John - he was tempting them to eat forbidden meat each Friday, and they couldn't take it anymore.

They decided to try and convince John to become a Catholic. They went over to his house and having spoken to him they were delighted when he decided to join all of his neighbours and become a Catholic.

They took him to Church, and the Priest sprinkled some Holy water over him, and said, "Bless you my son: You were born a Protestant, you were raised a Protestant, and now you are a Catholic".  

The men were so relieved, now that their biggest Lenten temptation was resolved.

The final Lenten Friday arrived.  Just at supper time, when the neighbourhood was sitting down to their fish or egg dinners, they became aware of the wafting smell of steak cooking on a grill.

The neighbourhood men could not believe their noses!  What was John up to now? They called each other up and decided to meet over at John's house to see if he had forgotten. The group arrived just in time to see John standing over his grill with a small pitcher of water.

He was sprinkling some water over his huge steak on the barbeque, saying, "Bless you: You were born a cow, you were raised a cow, and now you are a fish." 

---------Mike--------

A Kind Cure.......

Suffer the Little Children…..

"What the hell are you doing Peter - you look like you have been dragged five miles through a hedgerow - what's your problem?"   I could not believe my eyes when I saw my son. It was now almost 2pm on Boxing Day, and he was still wearing his pajamas.

"Have you been on a bender all over Christmas?" I asked even though there was no evidence of the fact. "No Dad" he said in a low, slow voice "it's the tenth anniversary - you know, since Jane died. I still feel the pain". "Look" I said knowing exactly how he felt "I've been there, but this is no good Pete. You have got to move on. Life is for living. Do you understand me? It’s about time we did something about it". "And what do you suggest?" he answered almost in a whisper.

"Watch your step, young man" I said sternly as he was beginning to annoy me with his self-pity. "You are not the first to go through it and as sure as eggs are eggs, you surely won't be the last. Now come on, move yourself and get changed. I know exactly what we are going to do".

Peter got up and scratched. "Come on, move", I encouraged him. He made the way to his bedroom where, once he began to get undressed, I left him and ran the shower. Moments later, he was having a good clean-up and shave and ten minutes later, he looked a little like his old neat self.  He dressed quickly and we moved back downstairs.

"Listen to me Pete" I urged, "sometimes doing something is worse than doing nothing, but what we are going to do to-day, will, I guarantee you, put things into perspective". "No parties Dad" he pleaded, "I don't want to be in a crowd. I don't think I could take it". "No, you twit" I joked "it's something we should have done a few years back. Today, you  have a chance to rejoin the human race for a few hours".

We got into my car and I drove us away from his street and made our way down to the East End. We parked in the Hospital Car Park, which was free for a change. In this area, any cash boxes in the ticket machines wouldn't last less than ten minutes. "Who's sick Dad" Peter asked "not Mom, is she?" he asked with a little panic in his voice.

Since it had happened all those years ago, he had a dread of hospitals. I wasn't much better. "Don't worry sunshine - no problem - nothing to worry about" I put his mind at rest as we entered the main entrance.

A quick look at the directions and away we went, down corridors, up stairs, more corridors. "Good God" I said to Peter "but you wouldn't want to be injured coming in here, would you?" Peter was still bemused and just smiled. As we came to the waiting area outside the Children's Ward, I could see a group sitting around.

"Oh good lord" Peter exclaimed, "I think I am ahead of you Dad, should I know someone in here? Is that why we came?" "No way" I replied taking in the surroundings "only another couple of minutes, I promise".

As we waited to enter the Children’s’ Ward, an old woman in her middle sixties, who was obviously a rambler from the Psychiatric Ward was having a great conversation with the drinks machine.

A bald headed boy aged about fifteen who had obviously recently undergone either Chemotherapy or an operation was anxiously looking up and down the corridor obviously awaiting the arrival of his parents or friends.

Minutes later, on seeing the Ward Sister, I made an approach. She had her back to us. "Sister I can give you a contact number at the local Police Station who will vouch for me", I spoke slowly "and the reason we are here is to give a visit to any child whose parents are unable to be here for whatever reason". The Ward Sister turned, smiled and said "No need to Paddy, I still recognise you. How long have you been retired".

It was Katherine Kelly. She had for three months been a police officer and worked with me at the local police station but decided to return to nursing. "As a matter of fact", Katherine added "there is one young boy, aged seven who has not had a visit for three days, his mother was injured in the same accident as his father and the other relatives live up in Scotland. His name is Gordon - see what you can do".

Peter looked at me in amazement and I realised that it was only now that it was dawning on him what was going on. Sister took us through the ward to a bed in the back corner.

"Is that you Gordon, you wee rascal" I called out loudly in my imagined Scottish accent, so that the nearby children could hear "'tis your uncles Paddy and Peter all the way from Glasgow to see you". As I handed Gordon a small parcel containing an Action Man, I winked at Peter and it was only then that I noticed a tear in his eyes.

"I remember" Peter sobbed "what Granddad used to say - that 'I cried because I had no shoes, until I met the man who had no feet'. I now understand why you brought me here. Thanks Dad, today I also have a chance to join the human race for a few hours, let’s make the best of it…… Gordon - 'tis a Gordon for me, a Gordon for me, if you're no a Gordon you're no use to me,................." he began to sing - very badly I might add.

Peter was back to his old self, at least for another year until the same old sad memory of his young wife Jane’s death came around once again to haunt him...................

--------Mike-----

Like the Side of a Bus...

 One’s Worst Nightmare….

More fiction…..(I promise)….

"Okay. I'll listen to you, but I trained for many years as a dietician and can assure you that I know what I am talking about" the lady dressed all in white, my favourite colour I might add, was laying down the law to the class. This included my goodself and about eight other overweight unwilling participants. She was the evening’s guest speaker at our 'Watchers of Weight' club.

"You are what you eat" she paced backwards and forwards in front of us when suddenly she pointed her finger "and you Mister Smith, are obviously overly fond of pork. Pig, Mr. Smith, I said Pig Mr. Smith". As poor old Mr. Smith, obviously a twenty-five stone weakling, began to stand up, she quickly retorted "Pork, Mr. Smith. Ham, Mr. Smith, Bacon, Mr. Smith". Mr. Smith, still red with embarrassment, cowered, sat down and let out a deep sigh.

"And as for you Mrs. Jones" this time, with her arms akimbo, the White clad devil, nodded at a poor woman who could not have been more than five stone over weight. However, for her size, her natural weight should have been about eight stone, so it showed.

Our lady in white continued "when we say 'five a day' Mrs. Jones, we mean five small portions of fruit and vegetables, not five three course meals. Are you with us Mrs. Jones?” she asked. Poor old Mrs. Jones bowed her head and was obviously on the verge of tears.

"As I was saying, Mr. Robbins, you are what you eat". There was a sneer in her voice as she spoke directly to me. 

Suddenly our lady in white noticed that a very large lady at the back had her hand up. "What is it Mrs. Goldstein? toilet or question?" I suddenly had the feeling that Mrs. Goldstein was going to really regret putting up her hand.

"When I dance," she said, "people think I'm searching my handbag looking for my keys and I do love to dance. I used to do it professionally" she boasted. "Not any more Mrs. Goldstein, am I right?" The lady in white asked with a snigger then continued "Everytime I look at you, you are rooting around in your handbag, obviously looking for a chocolate bar to ease your craving".

She paused momentarily; "Next time you are dancing" she added, "leave your handbag behind. Incidentally, what do you drive, a Ford Pickup Truck?" She laughed and was joined by a man to her right who could not have been more than a few pounds overweight.

"Thank you Mr. Johnstone" our lady in white beamed a smile at him.

Poor old Mrs. Goldstein stood up and amid the sobs cried out "I'm not listening anymore". Tears were running down her face. I stood up and although I am only a couple of stone overweight, I decided that something had to be said.   "Miss" I spoke to our lady in white "I do not think that you should be treating our members in such a fashion".

Before I could finish what I was going to say, she almost shouted back at me "Well, you're the last piece of the gig-saw, Mr. Robbins: I've been trying to puzzle out your dress sense since we started". She stopped only to take a deep breath, then continued

"Fashion, Mr. Robbins. Fashion. How dare you mention such a word whilst you are wearing those green corduroy trousers and brown boots. Sit down and listen, you might learn how to control your obvious eating disorder and gain some advice on dress sense at the same time.   Fashion indeed".

"I’ve had enough" I called out to the others as I stood up, "I did not pay good money to come here and be insulted by that devil in white". "Madame' I finished 'you are a bit*ch". I walked towards the door and heard a rustle of chairs behind me. The entire class was following me.

I must admit that the congestion at the door was something to be seen to be believed. No one wanted to be the last out and manners went to the wall.

Later that night, as I lay in bed on my own as usual, I had to content myself with the usual ritual. You see, because of my weight, which in the past was much, much greater than present, I never married, so my brother and I shared a small flat together.

I could have cried, but instead I had to fall asleep to the sound of my brother munching away on nuts and crisps. He is quite slim with not an ounce of fat on him. As my old granddad used to say "There’s more meat on a butcher’s pencil".

I am definitely going to start a diet tomorrow, for the simple reason that I am now even jealous of my slim brother. You see, I have not eaten a packet of crisps for at least fifteen years.

Yes a strict diet, from tomorrow........... now I wonder if the lady in white would like to go out to dinner ..................... ZZzzzzzzzzzzz z z z z z

--------Mike-------