I think we need a new boat. Not a complete big boat – that would be pushing my luck and, in any case, I am very content with the one I have – but a little inflatable boat, known as a tender. But such a goal flags up many questions: where would we keep it (either inflated or packed), would we use it, how would we power it, could we afford it and – crucially – how would I persuade Jane that it would be a vital accessory to APPLETON RUM. Predictably, the memsahib homed in immediately on the first four questions when I tentatively raised the possibility of the new addition to our little boating family, and she was definitely suspicious of overtures regarding the fifth question. She identified good points, of course.
On the first one, most boats keep their tenders lashed upright to the stern and I am not keen on that because it looks untidy and, in our case, would clutter up the bathing platform and deny access to the stern ladder used to recover men or women who have fallen overboard. Some boats simply tow the tender behind them, which might work at sea, but could inhibit manoeuvring in harbour (I don’t want the tow line around my propeller). Inflatable boats can be packed away, but then a stowage needs to be found for a package that is roughly coffin-shaped and one metre long and, of course, you have to inflate the dinghy as required using a hand-pump, which could be a laborious process. I suspect Jane has inferred, entirely without foundation, who might be doing the pumping. She will almost certainly have considered what it will be like manhandling a dinghy out of the water and who will be assisting with the work: depending on the quality of the material used, these inflatables can be quite heavy (most of the smaller ones weigh typically 35 kg [77 lbs]) and she strained her back lifting a fibreglass dinghy we had back in 1990 – something which, unfortunately, she has never forgotten.
Would we use it? Why of course: it would give us greater flexibility on our little trips and could ferry us ashore to that deserted isolated beach or that pub up the shallow creek (there would be a further potential benefit that I will come to later).
As to powering the boat, why, it will have oars of course and we all know who will be doing the pulling (note: in the Royal Navy we do not row a boat, we pull it); the role of galley slave will undoubtedly be added to my many onerous duties along with decks, dhobying and drinks, but that is fine as it at least guarantees that we will get to our destination in a straight line. I think, on this topic, Jane suspected a hidden agenda that involved also purchasing twin Mercury outboard motors to drive us along at 40 knots, and she questioned where this heavy machinery and its accompanying highly inflammable petrol would be stowed. Nay, nay, my dear, I assured her: if we really needed an outboard motor (surely not) at some undetermined date in the future, then we would get a lightweight electric one which would be best for the environment. I did not add that, at £1,200 for an electric outboard, that is a lot of trees saved.
Finally, the six million dollar question: could we afford it? Tricky. At the top end of the range you have your robust Bombards and Avons, as used by Special Forces and illegal immigrants from France and Mexico; at the bottom end you have your PVC canoes and floating sea serpents as used by children rescued every summer by the RNLI and the US Coastguard. The former costs are measured in thousands and the latter in tens or hundreds. I was thinking the cheapest possible, concomitant with staying afloat when two arguing people are in it; maybe £400 or so.
This tricky conundrum, with its paucity of sound argument and absence of final strategy, has been hanging over me for some time and has been the subject of much research, the last task being hindered by Jane occasionally looking over my shoulder as I surf the net and saying, “We are not getting a dinghy” in that helpful supportive manner of hers. But then, last week, we had visitors and I put the problem to my old friend and mentor whom we will call Sean. He gave the matter considerable thought and proposed a strategy of persuasion that would utilise that ubiquitous topic, Health and Safety. He suggested that a dinghy would, in effect, be a lifeboat for when we went on long trips to Plymouth, Cornwall, the Scilly Islands or Grenada. Such an approach would work with his wife, Sheila, so – with a bit of help – it could be made to work with Jane. Operation DINGHY was launched at breakfast the next day. It started with a casual question to me, as to which voyages did we have planned for APPLETON RUM. I replied that I hoped to go to Salcombe then, perhaps, Plymouth or Falmouth. Did I have a liferaft? I did not. What, no lifeboat or liferaft? Oh dear…I think you will get the gist of how the rest of the strategy panned out. The seed was sown, and it just needed a little watering with the help from Sheila, whom we had recruited as a tacit supporter. But Sheila proved to be a bit of a loose cannon. She supported the Health and Safety angle all right, but then moved on to the subject of “had we bought a new mattress lately?” (where on earth did that come from?). Before you could say “TITANIC” the conversation had moved on from liferafts and lifeboats and was now addressing the subject of bedbugs and the need to change a mattress every ten years. In vain, I tried to bring the conversation back to inflatables, but I was left floundering at sea. The long and short of it all (to save you falling asleep over this sad tale) is that the inflatable dinghy purchase became a “just possible, subject to answering questions 1 to 4 above” on the proviso that I accepted the purchase of a new mattress as a quid pro quo. Moral of the story: beware The Sisterhood, the secret society is devious.
Yesterday I ordered a special lightweight inflatable dinghy that packs into the size of a matchbox and weighs two pounds (I may have exaggerated slightly); today I ordered a new double mattress that, in my opinion, we don’t need. Fair enough I suppose. Now where on earth will I stow that dinghy and how will I pay for it?
Does your accent matter? I pondered on this, not for the first time, as I grated my teeth listening to the continuity announcer on the television. His accent was awful and did not add to my enjoyment of the station I was watching. I cannot remember which accent it was: somewhere ‘”Up North” like Liverpool, Birmingham or Newcastle I expect; it is never somewhere south or rural, like Cockney, Devonshire, Norfolk or Kent. Insidiously, British television (and to a lesser extent radio) has been dumbing down on the English language and pronunciation, presumably thinking that it puts it more in touch with the masses. It doesn’t. It just makes it sound unprofessional. I write this view, not as a snob (though I am one), but as a person born in a terraced house on Tyneside who entered adulthood with a strong Tyneside accent. When I joined naval college at Dartmouth few people understood me and I quickly worked out that it was a handicap for communication reasons if nothing else. Over the years I polished my speech to neutral English such that most people cannot tell where I was brought up though, interestingly, a fellow Tynesider can tell immediately that I am a “posh Geordie” and I will be condemned accordingly as a traitor to my roots. Jane, though born and brought up in the Caribbean, has a cut-glass English accent to a rough Tynesider like me but, curiously, her cousin – born and raised in similar circumstances, but now living in Berkshire – still has a strong Caribbean accent, which sounds bizarre coming from a white person. I digress slightly. Returning to the original question, does it matter? We were discussing this with our visitors last week and we concluded that one’s accent shouldn’t affect one’s credibility, but that, in practice, it does. A strong accent makes the speaker sound – well – uneducated. Curiously, this notion refers only to English accents. Scottish and Irish accents usually sound delightful (though full Glaswegian and Ulster can be unintelligible); Welsh accents are almost poetic. Even the English accents have a hierarchy, with the rural accents of Devonshire, Dorset, Somerset and East Anglia sounding quite quaint, if homespun. I think it is the north of England accents that can grate: Liverpool, Birmingham, Tyneside and – to a slightly lesser extent – Yorkshire and Lancashire. In my childhood all the radio and television announcers spoke like the queen; now, a well-spoken person, perhaps educated at Eton or Roedean, who is seeking employment with the BBC or a television company would be well advised to adopt a plebeian accent in order to be successful. This is dumbing down at its worst and a poor way to communicate to the nation on neutral ground. Speak properly.
I see that we are back to references to “the four nations of the UK” again, as first raised in Blog 45. I don’t know how this all started. The United Kingdom is a nation. It has a Head of State, a currency, an infrastructure, Armed Forces and so on, and is listed by the United Nations accordingly. But are England, Wales, Scotland or Ulster nations? I accept that the first three are countries, the last a province. They all have their own sense of social identity and history; Scotland, in particular, has always had its own laws too. But nations? Does the United States of America think of California as a nation, or Idaho, or Maine? No. So I do not see that the United Kingdom is made up of four nations. I can only suppose that the new terminology is one of the many consequences of Tony Blair’s devolution, exacerbated by giving the four “nations” a free, separate, rein on handling the CV19 epidemic.
Jane and I lived in Scotland for a while some years ago, pre devolution, and we have never forgotten it. We loved the people (and the accents), but the weather was awful. I may be indulging in hyperbole here, but I swear it never stopped raining for the whole time with the exception of one weekend. When we moved up there, we made the mistake of thinking that Scotland was just another part of Britain like, say, Cornwall or Yorkshire. It soon became clear that Scotland was very much a country in its own right, with its own laws, its own language and its own customs. It even had its own Bank Holidays and its own bank notes. The terminology was different. A “take away”, for example, was a “carry out”; fish and chips in England would usually include cod whereas in Scotland the fish was usually whiting. The cuts of steak were different. Even the domestic procedures were different. I remember when Jane was shopping in a small supermarket in Bridge of Weir, our nearest town. She found a free checkout with only one person waiting and promptly placed herself at the end. There was a distinct rumble of Hibernian displeasure behind her and she suddenly realised that in Scotland the practice was to form one long queue with the first in the queue going to the next available checkout (such as we do in the Post Office in England today). In this case, the single queue stretched all the way up one aisle and halfway down the next. Jane’s,
“Oh, I say, I’m terribly sorry”,
in her English accent did not entirely mollify the disgruntled members of the queue.
The Scots hate the English, of course. Not all of them, obviously, but the Scottish Nationalists definitely. Scotland has been a voluntary part of the Union since 1707, but some Scots still seem to feel that it was all a dreadful mistake and would like to wind back the clock. History plays some part in the one-sided acrimony and, undoubtedly, English kings have led a good few bloody forays into Scotland. But then the Scots have led a good few bloody forays into England too, once conquering as far south as Derby; curiously, the English bear the Scots no animosity for these invasions (the last was, after all, about 275 years ago). A few years ago an Englishwoman was buying stamps in a Post Office in Melrose in the Scottish Borders. Hearing her accent, an elderly Scottish woman behind her tapped her on the shoulder and said,
“We gave you people a good sorting at Bannock Burn, didn’t we?”
The Englishwoman was, apparently, left speechless. I wish I had been there. I would have said,
“…and you can remember that?”
To save you getting out your old history books, the Battle of Bannockburn occurred in 1314 when Robert the Bruce of Scotland routed the English army under Edward II of England. You knew that already, of course – especially if you are Scottish.
Having lived in Scotland, I have some genuine sympathy with Scots who feel forgotten or neglected by the UK government and English media. The UK government talks of regenerating “the northern powerhouse”, for example, but is referring not to Inverness but rather to Manchester or Leeds (which, in my view, are not even in the north of England). The term, “the North” usually refers to anywhere north of Watford, in England. The new proposed 21st century world-beating rail link HS2 will link London initially with (wait for it…) Birmingham in the English Midlands. On the other hand, Scotland now (since I left) has its own parliament, its own dynamic First Minister and its own tax-raising powers – something England does not have. The country receives a significant subsidy from the central UK government – more per head than England or Wales. It offers free university education to its citizens and anyone from the European Union, though not, significantly, to anyone from England. Although, apparently, over 50% of Scots favour independence it would be prudent, before voting, to establish what they would be voting for if there were another referendum. A divorce would be complex to negotiate. For example, who would be eligible to vote: people of any nationality born in Scotland, people simply living in Scotland, Scots now living in other parts of the UK or Scots living abroad? How much of the UK assets would be apportioned to Scotland? Would apportionment be done on a per capita basis (there are more people in the county of Yorkshire than there are in Scotland)? How much of the national debt would be apportioned? How would the Armed Forces be split? What would be the currency? All these points, and others, would have to be addressed, preferably before a vote was taken. An independent Scotland may be viable – after all, Eire split from Great Britain in 1922 and has survived quite well since, especially since joining the European Union. Whatever, the decision as to whether to leave the UK must lie with the Scots (though define ‘Scot’ as outlined above). As an Englishman I just wish the Scottish Nationalists would stop grumbling and moaning about the English all the time.
We still love Scotland as a place to visit. We spent an excellent week in the Highlands in Grantown-On-Spey in the Cairngorms a couple of years ago. For the first time, we flew up there and hired a car rather than drive direct. This proved quite a good idea and the little Fiat 500 we had was perfect for the narrow twisting roads, though the manual gear change took a bit of getting used to. Our hotel was a small affair where we have stayed once before: only six rooms and run entirely by a lovely couple who also provided a four course dinner every night. It was so peaceful and quiet: hardly any traffic, very little graffiti and little litter (I have a thing about graffiti, so Jane tells me). We spent the whole week doing walks along the River Spey (whisky country): nine miles one day, then twelve and finally fourteen miles. The weather was unusually gorgeous and the natives friendly. We even visited a castle, Ballindalloch, seat of the Laird of Banffshire and home of the ancient Macpherson-Grant family. We tried to visit some distilleries, but found that they had to be booked weeks in advance; this was probably just as well, as only I could drive the hire car and Scotland’s limits on alcohol are half that of England’s (any alcohol at all will set you over the limit). We have some friends who live on the coast up there and they helped us to absorb the local vernacular with Scottish pronunciation. There were some odd names: Knockandhu (which we suggested facetiously was ‘no can do’ or maybe ‘knock and do’) but which was pronounced ‘Na CAN do’; Craigellachie, which is pronounced ‘Creg ELL acky’; Anniestown (which we thought was – well – ‘Annie’s Town’) which was pronounced ‘Anniston’; and the River Avon (which we thought was like our local river) which was pronounced River ‘Arn’. The whisky Glen Morangie is pronounced ‘Glen MORAN gie’ (a bit like ‘orangery’). There were lots of others: the commonest mistake made by non Scots, apparently, is the town of Kingussie, which most outsiders pronounce ‘King Goosey’, but is actually pronounced ‘Kin YOU see’. Ah the Scottish language is an amazing thing. The week just whizzed by.
The Covid 19 epidemic continues, but it is dying out in the UK. Although daily deaths in the UK are now down to single figures (two on 21 August) the media and government have now subtly switched from using deaths as the basis of concern, to cases. The number of cases is reducing slowly but, frustratingly for the gloom-mongers, there is no longer a correlation with deaths. In other words, the cases springing up are rarely now fatal: either the virus is becoming more mild, patients are more robust, or our doctors are now dealing with the virus much better than they did, given the support of new drugs and experience. Yet swingeing restrictions are still in force and mini lockdowns are being threatened for different UK cities or regions periodically. It is as if British citizens are revelling in masochistic pleasure; certainly many seem to love wearing a muzzle in shops or even outdoors (I believe it makes them feel safe, for some reason). What I find the most frustrating thing is that there has been no indication of an end to the restrictions as there was in the early days of the epidemic: no review date, no set-down criteria for removing face coverings or allowing assemblies, nothing. Someone said to me the other day that we will be wearing masks in two years time. Heaven forbid. I still think the practice is ineffective and unnecessary. As for Covid 19, there is currently a 0.48% probability of catching it in the UK and, overall, a 0.06% chance of dying from it. You are more likely to be injured in a car accident. Grumble over.
One of the many consequences of the present hysteria is the suspension of normal GP appointments. It was bad enough before trying to get an appointment, but now it is worse. Internet bookings (which we always used) have been suspended for our surgery and now one is faced with interminable waiting on the phone, then a fierce interrogation by a receptionist called Cerberus. This triage may result in a return telephone call by a doctor, an on-line Skype consultation or – in only extreme cases – an actual face-to-face meeting with a real doctor. And as to a home visit – well, you can forget that. They say that this new way of doing things may now stay as it is “more efficient”. I think it just suggests that GPs would rather not have to deal with the grubby public and their horrible illnesses at all. Don’t get me wrong: I think the triage concept is excellent as it sorts out the genuine cases (such as mine) from the malingerers, hypochondriacs and sick bay rangers (you may have bruises, but I have contusions). What I object to is having to describe my intimate symptoms to a non-medical professional. I am also doubtful that a video consultation is as good as an actual face-to-face meeting. I am no doctor but, from what I have read, I understand that a GP can gain a great deal of information from simply looking at a patient in the flesh: their eyes, their complexion, their fingernails, their general demeanour. None of those things can be properly assessed on a video call, nor can the GP take your pulse, temperature or blood pressure.
Being ill was slightly different in the navy. A friend of mine, who had served as a rating before being promoted, said that in one ship that he served in, the patients were roused out of their bunks in the sick bay to paint out the compartment for Captain’s Rounds. When he complained to the Chief Medical Assistant that he thought they should be given a bit of sympathy, the Chief looked at him and said,
“Sympathy? Sympathy? If you’re looking for sympathy, lad, you’ll find it in the dictionary between sh*t and syphilis” .
Ah, the service life. You can’t beat it can you?
24 August 2020
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 