Blog 44. Ease springs on Monday?

“What are you wearing?”, she called up the stairs.
My naturally fertile imagination immediately added up two and two to make five: at last, my ship had come in. Had the woman gone mad? Was there some fruity article in that Women’s Institute Magazine that had dropped through the letterbox yesterday? I pondered rapidly on a suitable response involving rubber gear, leather and thongs; I could hardly reply truthfully that I was wearing the beige cavalry twill trousers, the Charles Tyrwhitt tattersall cotton shirt, the brown brogues, and that cravat that I bought in Gibraltar back in ‘71. Sensing the slight pause, and undoubtedly knowing the way my mind works, she immediately clarified the question.
“What are you wearing for our walk?”
Shucks.

It is Exped day: the day we had planned for venturing forth, once more, into the bundu. A day of daffodils and daisies, of stiles and celandines, of flora and fauna, and of marshes and midges. It will also be a day of the Horticultural Lesson. For Jane is on a mission from God: to teach me the names of the wild flowers of Britain. She has virtually given up teaching me contemporary music by way of the CPD (Continuous Pop Development) scheme, so she can now concentrate her full energy on training me up in horticulture. Her lecture style runs on the lines of:

(She) “And what is this?”. [Points to obscure white thing in the hedgerows].
(Self), [Stalling for time and shifting from one foot to the other]. “Oooo, I used to know this one…it’s on the tip of my tongue”
(She). [Sighs. Taps her boot].
(Self). “It begins with ‘P’’’
(She) [Gazes at sky]. “No it doesn’t”.
“I’ve got it! Campion!”.
“It is NOT campion. Look at the leaves! And campion is pink”.
“This is C-O-M-F-R-E-Y”, she continues, as if addressing an infant who is being particularly slow. “Note the shape of the leaves and petals…Now over here is Russian Comfrey…”

And so it goes on.  Occasionally, we actually manage to make progress through the fields without stopping.  I do try at my studies, I really do, but it don’t answer.

These rugged expeditions into Barsetshire need careful sartorial preparation of course, as does every other adventure by the Shacklepin household: there is a Rig for everything.  In this case the Exped Rig (Rig No 7) comprises the charcoal grey first layer with the discreet Berghaus motif; an optional matching Craghopper second layer;  the lightweight Craghopper charcoal-grey hiking trousers with map pocket; the Italian alpine hiking boots with optional gaiters; and the rucksack or utility belt.  This last has been the subject of much hurtful mirth on the part of some friends who have accompanied us on treks, but it is an essential part of the rig.  As a lighter alternative to the rucksack, the utility belt contains all the essentials one needs for an arduous trek into the English countryside, such as compass, blister plasters, torch, whistle, spare bootlaces, multitool, compact first aid kit, binoculars, water bottle, and the emergency ration of Werthers Original Boiled Sweets.  Many is the time we have called upon that utility belt to get us out of a difficult fix in the desolate wastes of Barsetshire; I would never be without it.  And Jane?  Similar rig, but with pastel colours; many, many more layers; a Tilley hat; negative utility belt, negative rucksack.  In the last negative items, male readers will recognise the role of  le banquier et l’âne.

The assembly of Rig No 7 took longer than usual this morning, because we could not find the trousers.  After a comprehensive search of the homestead it emerged that someone had washed them after the last expedition, but failed to remove them for drying.  Moreover, the same person may have left a packet of paper tissues in the pocket and the soggy tissues had distributed themselves liberally all over the trousers and the washing machine drum (note the excellent use of the passive third person here).  Have you ever done this?  The resulting mess is out of all proportion to the error: the clothes get coated in white paper fluff and the lucky Laundry Officer gets to spend fifteen minutes on his knees in his underpants picking out soggy lumps of paper from the washing machine.  We all get our thrills in different ways.

I am missing my boat.  My boat is a twin-screwed super-yacht with a sleek white hull, a helideck, twin turbocharged Volvo diesels, a speed of 30 knots and a crew of six.  Well, she might be a bit smaller and a bit slower than that.  And the crew might be two.  She is called APPLETON RUM and she is moored in a marina on the south coast.  Jane and I are not allowed access to the marina in the present situation, and I fear she is going green with neglect (the boat, not Jane).  To be fair, the marina has been very good in looking after her in the present Emergency and I get weekly reports on the security of her mooring and state of flotation.  The marina has also been kind enough to run the engines and heating system every month, and this has relieved my mind considerably.. You see, as any engineer will tell you, machines like to be visited.  You don’t have to do anything to them (indeed, unnecessary fiddling should be avoided): all that is required is a reassuring hand on a bearing cover, the shine of a torch on some obscure coupling or, perhaps, a few soft words.  But you must visit them.  Neglect that visit and the machines can do a hissy fit and take offence, letting you down when you most need them.

“UK has worst Corona-19 deaths in Europe” screams the latest headlines from the UK media with great delight. Our Press has always been staunchly patriotic, and it gives our media immense satisfaction to proclaim that Britain is first yet again. It is, of course, a load of codswallop. When deaths from CV19 were first reported daily, the figures only included deaths in hospital as this data was readily available. “Ah”, said the media, “this is a cover-up. What about the hundreds of old people dying in care homes”. So with, I think, some difficulty the government included deaths in care homes in the data, which boosted the death toll nicely. “No transparency!”, claimed the Press again. “What about people who died as a result of being hoofed out of hospital to make room for CV19 patients, or have missed treatment, and died as a result”. So a further category was added to the daily data and the UK death toll jumped up further. This yields a very high figure which pleases our media hugely. The Press then take this figure, which is as high as they can possibly make it, and compare it with the figures from other European countries, which are compiled in a totally different way – the figure for Italy, for example, does not include care home deaths. Finally, as I have expounded in earlier blogs, in comparing absolute figures of deaths no account is taken of countries’ population size or population density: France, for example, has a similar population to the UK but has over two and a half times the land mass. A comparison plot of UK deaths (the Big Figure) per million population shows remarkable similarity with Italy, Spain and France. As I said, the headline is codswallop. But the British Press love it.

I see that some scientists in the UK have set up an alternative advisory committee as a rival to the official Scientific Advisory Group for Emergencies (SAGE).  How helpful.  Putting aside the fact that some of the rival committee are communist party members or Labour Party activists who may reasonably be expected to have an interest in discrediting the government, this is not the time for indecision and alternative advice.  The people need clear, unequivocal instruction and firm leadership.  Here we are in our sinking ship of state and one group of passengers is claiming we should pump out faster, another is claiming we should cover the hole better and yet a third is claiming that we should really have seen that iceberg coming and not hit it in the first place.  Far better to do what the professional captain and crew tell us, and sort out any recriminations later. 

If you think I have a bit of a toot on about all this then you would be right: I broke my own rule earlier this week and read a newspaper.  It quite ruined m’ breakfast and I was grumpy for the next two days.

On a final note about CV19, I am wary of passing on tips for avoiding catching the virus as there have been a lot of spurious emails flying around with dubious recommendations, and I am hardly medically qualified. However, I read this one from a naval doctor and I think it is worth mentioning. The key factor to take account of is the viral load. If you meet, say, one person with the virus and they pass it on to you, then (assuming you are healthy) your antibodies will deal with it and you will recover quickly; you may not even notice any symptoms. If, however, you meet a lot of people with the virus, say, in the confines of a hot and sweaty nightclub, a crowded pub or stuffy tube train, then you will be hit by a lot at once and your body will find it harder to cope; you will be very ill. So, when all these restrictions start to lift, avoid that wild disco or orgy.

Now, tell me, What is it with cyclists? They are either wizzing past you on the pavement without warning, or they are stuck in front of you, two abreast, when you are driving a car. And they look ridiculous wearing that poncy Lycra and those nerdy helmets. Don’t get me wrong: I used to cycle myself at one time, admittedly on a sensible upright bicycle with a basket on the front, and dressed in tweed. I gave it up because motorists tearing past six inches away scared the living daylights out of me. I do understand how hazardous the method of transportation can be. No, my point is the sheer arrogance and absence of consideration for others that some cyclists display. For example, we have a new relief road near our house and it is quite broad though it only has two carriageways. The accompanying pavement is deliberately wide to make it a combined pedestrian footpath and cycle path. But do the cyclists use it? No. Most prefer to use the road and hold up motorists (the speed limit is 40 mph). Moreover, they often ride two abreast and refuse to form single file when a car is behind them. I once asked a keen cyclist of my acquaintance why they did this and he said that they were advised to do that by the Cycling Association (or some similar body) in order to “claim their place on the road”. This, in my view, is incredibly arrogant and quite likely to antagonise motorists into doing something silly or dangerous. We have a canal near us and cyclists love to use the towpath to get from A to B as a traffic-free route. I cannot blame them for that. But instead of giving advance warning to pedestrians as they approach from behind, they take them by surprise and race past, causing a considerable hazard (the towpath is only about a yard wide, tapering to a foot in places). Some years ago, boat owners on the canal grew tired of the Lycra-clad idiots treating the towpath as a race track and one of them stuck out his barge-pole just as a cyclist went past. Of course, the rider flew over the handlebars and broke several bones, which gave immense satisfaction. But the boat owner was arrested and fined. Arrogance breeds bad behaviour. Sorry: those cyclists are going on my List.

Of course, motorists are far from faultless.  Of particular concern, at present, is the speed with which they pass pedestrians walking in the road.  We are doing a fair bit of walking in the present circumstances, and some of our walks take us unavoidably along country roads that do not have a pavement.  I mentioned earlier that I gave up cycling because I became terrified of being hit by a passing car, but it can be equally terrifying for a pedestrian in the road.  I have had cars pass me at 30mph so close that I felt the wind from the slipstream of the car’s wing mirror.  Sometimes a pedestrian can get off the road onto the grass verge, but that is not always the case and – even then – it is still very much a close-quarters situation.  When Shacklepin forms his benevolent dictatorship, all candidates for a driving test will be forced to walk along a country road while hikers drive past them at 30mph.  Perhaps that way motorists will learn how to be considerate.

One of Mrs Shacklepin’s favourite tipples is rum and Coke, made with Appleton Rum – a tribute to her Caribbean roots.  We were horrified to find, last weekend, that not only did we have no Appleton rum in stock; we had no rum, full stop.  This was terrible, and the memsahib was forced to leap down to the local shop to buy a small bottle of rum of some unknown provenance (it was to make her excellent rum and raisin ice cream).  This little episode made me think of the history of rum and the Royal Navy (lecture on naval history Part 2 coming up – pay attention).

The Royal Navy used to issue rum to all ratings over the age of twenty right up to 1970 (which I count as quite recently).  Officers did not receive it.  Ratings could opt out and those doing so were marked “T” for “Temperance” in the ship’s books and received threepence a day compensation; others of eligible age were marked “G” for “Grog” in the ship’s books.  The rum, or tot as it was known, was issued every day in the forenoon at 1130, when “Up Spirits” would be piped.  The requisite quantity would be brought up from the Spirit Room and poured into a large barrel (labelled “The Queen.  God Bless Her”).  Representatives from each mess would come along to the issue, which usually took place in a bathroom, clutching a suitable container such as a fanny (a sort of large rectangular aluminium bucket).  In the presence of the Officer of the Day, each mess would receive the carefully measured quantity of rum dependant on the number of men in the mess marked “G”.  Each man received ½ a gill of rum (⅛ of a pint).  The representative would then take the rum to his mess and a senior man would dispense a tot to each man in a special glass.  After all the rum had been issued, the remnants in the main barrel were emptied down the scupper (drain) overboard – hence the use of the bathroom.  Now this rum was extremely potent: each tot was the equivalent of three or four pub gins.  It was 95.5% proof (54.6 ABV).  Junior ratings had their tot diluted with two parts water and the resultant mixture is called grog.  Although it was diluted, they were still drinking ⅜ pint of potent stuff – roughly a cupful.  Senior ratings (Chief Petty Officers and Petty Officers) received their tot neat.  The tot was to be consumed immediately ie bottling and saving it was strictly prohibited, but many Senior Ratings saved it illicitly in their lockers.  The tot was a valuable currency.  A particular favour could be repaid with “sippers”; a bigger favour with “gulpers”; and a really big favour (such as saving your life) would merit being given the whole tot.  I was serving in the Royal Navy when the rum ration was in place and I remember “Up Spirits” well.  Being an officer and, in any case, being under twenty, I never received it myself.  My memory is that the smell of the rum was literally intoxicating – particularly in the confined space of a bathroom.  Readers will readily have inferred that the issue of this highly potent spirit for consumption on an empty stomach was totally incompatible with a modern high-tech Navy, and it caused many problems of indiscipline.  Health, both physical and mental, also suffered (men would sometimes be given “sippers” by everyone in their mess to celebrate their birthday; some died).  The final death knell came when it emerged that anyone taking the tot would fail a breathalyser test for driving in the UK, and this swung the Admiralty Board’s decision.  The last tot was issued on 31 July 1970; a tradition that had lasted since 1655 had ended.  There was some regret, and much ceremonial mourning, but most ratings recognised that the change had to come.  As compensation, a trust fund was set up for sailors’ amenities and Senior Ratings were allowed to run their own bars in their messes, similar to the wardroom.  Incidentally, notwithstanding the abolition of the daily tot, rum is still issued to all hands (including officers) in the Royal Navy on very special occasions, when “Splice the Mainbrace” is signalled.  In all my career of thirty three years it only happened once: when Her Majesty The Queen signalled “Spice the Mainbrace” to the Fleet from the Royal Yacht BRITANNIA on completion of the the Fleet Review at Spithead for her Silver Jubilee in 1977.

Tomorrow is the 75th anniversary of Victory in Europe (VE Day).  In our present state of unprecedented confinement, difficulty and loss let us remember that it is nothing compared to the deaths, the horrors, the privations, and the sacrifices suffered by our parents, grandparents and great-grandparents.  They did what was right; they got on with it; and they recovered to develop the free society that we have today.  Let us commemorate VE Day with that thought in our minds, keep a sense of proportion, and resolve to follow their example.

“Gin and tonic?”
“But it’s only Thursday!”
“Nearly the weekend then”
“We shouldn’t really…”
“Just a small one…”
“Go on then…”
So runs a typical conversation in chez Shacklepin as the weekend approaches.  That is, of course, assuming that we are aware of what day it is, which is not always the case.  Gin is one of our favourite tipples, though we do drink it in moderation.  Plymouth Gin is my favourite, partly because I like the flavour and partly out of loyalty to my favourite naval port.  My wife favours the taste of Durham Gin, a commodity as rare as the memsahib herself.  The tonic is equally important: I prefer Fever Tree, Jane prefers ordinary Schweppes.  We take the drink in a tall glass packed with ice, with just a small slice of lime or lemon.  Having written that, I quite fancy one. Alas, the memsahib is enforcing a strict embargo on weekday drinking this week.  She hammered home the point as we returned from our trek today and I raised the question recounted at the beginning of this paragraph.   Tapping my firm muscular six-pack, she said, 

“We don’t want a pot belly like some of those other men of your age, do we?”

Ouch.

7 May 2020