I knew I was getting old when I was in HMS NONSUCH and responding to one of the many machinery breakdowns that characterised my time onboard. I was sliding down one of the near-vertical ladders onboard, gripping just the side rails, with my feet off the treads like you see in those American films, when I landed in an undignified heap on the deck below. I lay there for a bit, winded, waiting for someone to appear from a nearby compartment and say,
“Are you all right there, sir?” or,
“Are you hurt, old boy?”.
No one came.
So, philosophically, I just got up and continued my rapid descent down the remaining ladders, thinking to myself,
“You’re getting too old for this sort of thing”.
I was 41 at the time. As if I needed further corroboration of my impending senility, at home ashore I later found myself sighing audibly as I sat down in an armchair to rest my weary bones. Oh dear. I looked in the mirror the next morning and saw this old man with grey hair, thick eyebrows and bags under his eyes looking back at me. I had already found a hundred billion brain cells on my pillow when I got up, which surprised me as I never had that many to start with. When Young Lochinvar, aka Rupert our son, approached 40 I warned him that these signs were coming, but he dismissed my fatherly wisdom and made some suitably derogatory remark to me about the hair in my ears. I thought I would get my own back on that one: on his 40th birthday I sent him a box containing a photograph album recording each birthday, a cardigan, a pair of carpet slippers, a tube of Ibuprofen joint cream, and an electric nose hair trimmer. He later admitted that he particularly appreciated the last, which also worked well on ears and eyebrows. In a previous life I specialised in Reliability Engineering, a fascinating branch of engineering that you will be pleased to know I won’t burden you with, but one aspect is relevant to my theme here. In terms of reliability, many machines are said to follow the so-called bathtub curve [the cross-sectional shape of a bath tub cut across] , with a high failure rate in early days of service, dropping to a reasonably flat period of random failure (the bottom of the bathtub) during working life, then – over time – a rising failure rate as the machine wears out. For a lecture, I once extracted the failure rates for human beings in the UK (deaths per thousand population) from the Office of National Statistics and plotted the result on a graph, with age along the x-axis. The graph followed the bathtub curve: there was a high failure (death) rate in early years, corresponding to such conditions as cot death and so on; then a reasonably flat, random failure period (knocked over by a bus, murdered by wife for commenting on her shower cap); then a wear-out period leading to death in old age. At what age do you think the wear-out phase started? Well, I will tell you: at about 45, with a more marked point of inflexion at the age of 62. That’s it then.
“Do I get another chance, God?”
“No, sorry, mate, that was it”
Ho hum.
Thinking of Rupert, he did once buy me a mug for my birthday, which was very kind of him. It bore the logo,
“The Floggings Will Continue Until the Crew’s Morale Improves”.
I still have it, and use it regularly. It is obviously a tribute to my strong leadership skills and firm patriarchal presence. Or, at least, I think it is.
“There seems to be something wrong with our bloody ships today”.
So commented Admiral Beatty at the Battle of Jutland after two British battleships blew up in short time during the battle. The comment is relevant today in a different context and could be amplified by the aphorism,
“None can abide an ugly ship”,
a maxim apparently no longer followed by naval architects. Why are ships today so ugly? The worst of the lot must surely be the cruise ships, with high slab sides, and deck after deck of outside passenger cabins like the layers of a wedding cake. Some cruise lines even have the bows of their ships decorated with painted smiles or symbols, like a tart touting for business on a street corner. Yuk. The ships may meet the IMO stability criteria, but aesthetically they are top heavy, look hideous, and dominate a port by their towering imposing presence. Cargo carriers are little better, with containers piled so high on deck that the bridge windows can only just see over them; the superstructure and funnel are square and totally lacking in any grace. Ferries are chunky and ugly. It was not always this way: CUTTY SARK manages to look beautiful despite being a very successful tea clipper in her day; more recently, QUEEN ELIZABETH 2, now a floating hotel in Dubai, was a fine example of combining function with form. Now, there are very few cruise ships that do not make a true seaman wince. And as to warships, why, they can still look menacing and be highly capable without having to look simply ugly. The German battleship BISMARK, for example, managed to look domineering yet magnificent. More recently, the Royal Navy’s Type 21 frigates of the AMAZON Class (now sold) were sleek, attractive, functional and inspired pride in those who served in them. Today, the Royal Navy has the DARING Class destroyer: no doubt very capable, but angular, boxy and dull, with few (if any) aesthetic qualities. Of course, the answer to all these criticisms is that the ships are there for a commercial (or warlike) purpose; in the case of merchant ships, they are there to make money, pure and simple. But then, that was always the case and you never saw a more hard-nosed bunch of coves than shipowners in the late 19th and early 20th century; yet they took pride in their ships and so did the crews who manned them. A ship can be made to look reasonably pleasing to the eye without necessarily incurring extra costs: a rake of the mast here, a cap on the funnel there; even a change of paint scheme can make a huge difference. Such a shame that few naval architects or ship owners seem to have any taste or pride in their ships.
An example of a ship owner’s pride may be found in a little story that my father once told me. Immediately after WW2 he served in the coastal trade for a while – the trade being blessed with short periods away from home and – hence – a pleasant domestic routine. His company carried coal from the north east of England to London for conversion to gas: not the most exotic of trades (it could have been worse; it could have involved transporting sewage) yet the ships were well-looked after, were kept clean inside and out, and the officers dressed in uniform for meals. In the late 1940s, the company decided to invest in a fine new vessel, powered by a diesel engine, to replace existing coal-fired steam ships. The order was placed, the vessel built, and the new ship, sparklingly clean and trim in her livery, completed her maiden voyage reasonably successfully. Her main engine had, however, developed the odd problem and, as a temporary measure, the engineers had disconnected two pistons and had hung them up on chain blocks, the engine operating adequately on the remaining six cylinders. This is perfectly possible with big marine engines and is a not uncommon practice. Such was the pride in this humble, but new generation, ship that she entered port to a grand reception, with the company Board of Directors, in their best suits and bowler hats, lined up on the jetty and the ship’s officers, in their best uniforms, on the bridge, fo’c’sle and poop. I am not sure if there was a band playing, but there might as well have been. The Captain was conscious of every eye upon him as he conned the ship alongside. All went smoothly and the heaving lines were thrown. The Captain rang down “Full Astern” on the telegraph to take the last bit of way off the ship and complete the perfect alongside manoeuvre. The engine kicked into reverse with a puff of blue smoke, the propeller thrashed and the hull throbbed.
Suddenly, there was an enormous BANG and a sound as if an entire scrap yard had suddenly been scooped up into the air, then dropped onto concrete. The ship stopped and there was total silence, a settling cloud of dust, and a pervading smell of burnt oil. It transpired that the vibration of running at “Full Astern” had dislodged the two disconnected pistons and their connecting rods from their securing chain blocks, and they had dropped into the rotating engine. The noise was the components being mangled by the crankshaft. In terms of sea trials it was all a fine example of defeat being snatched from the jaws of victory. Apparently, the Chief Engineer was quite literally in tears. I do not know if he kept his job or if the champagne reception party went ahead. I would think not.
My little ship, The Boat, is still high and dry on blocks in the marina. The antifouling was sanded off a few weeks ago, a few cracks identified and repaired, and the fibreglass hull is currently drying out after its prolonged period in the water. In the spring a new coat of antifouling will be applied and, when the new pontoons are ready, APPLETON RUM will go back into the water with a smile on her face. The subject of antifouling is an interesting one (entering lecture mode again: pay attention). The coating is applied to the underwater area of ships and boats to inhibit marine growth like barnacles and weed, because such encumbrances reduce a vessel’s speed and increase fuel consumption. It is not a new thing: the bottoms of the old sailing ships were sheathed with copper to overcome this problem and that of the nasty teredo worm, that bored into the wooden hulls and weakened the structure. Nowadays the antifouling coating is applied just like paint and, at the expensive end of the product range, can be highly effective and save millions of pounds on a ship’s operating cost. As an example of the importance of antifouling, the aircraft carrier HMS ILLUSTRIOUS was in the final stages of building during the Falklands Conflict of 1982, but was rushed into service early and sent down to the South Atlantic without any antifouling having been applied to her bottom. After five months afloat in the River Tyne (at the time, so polluted that it would not support life) and a further nine months at sea the surface resistance of the hull was 2½ times that of a clean ship and it reduced her speed by 3 knots from her maximum of 28 knots. On ILLUSTRIOUS’ return to the UK, her bottom was cleaned and antifouled. After that, with a clean bottom, the power required to achieve lower speeds was reduced by 80%, and to achieve full speed, by 56%. Yes, those pesky barnacles have a lot to answer for. So there you are, you read it here first: keep your bottom clean.
Well, there is not much to report this week as Jane’s leg is still playing up and we dare not take even a little exercise because of the discomfort that follows. We did try a six-mile walk with friends on level ground around a nearby village at the weekend, taking a flask of coffee and biscuits for a break while sitting in the cold churchyard (socially distanced, naturally). It was actually very liberating, and she had very little pain at the time, but we did not sleep well for the next two nights: Jane because of her leg muscle going into spasm, and me because she kept kicking me as a result. What was that I said earlier about getting old?
The television is awash with pleas from charities at the moment. Regular readers will know from Blog 45 that I hate all television advertisement breaks and invariably mute the sound while seeking alternative viewing when they appear, but the televised pleas are so frequent and so strident that even I have been unable to avoid seeing them. So far I have noted pleas for cash to support: water wells, tigers, leopards, monkeys, whales, penguins, rhinoceroses, children, cats, dogs, old people, blind people, cancer research, heart disease research, the homeless, the disabled, the Salvation Army, Africans, Indians (spot, not feather), soldiers, sailors, aviators and the mentally ill. It is overwhelming for, like most people, I would love to support all of them, but I cannot. One must, perforce, apply some sort of filtering system to the charities seeking funds if one is not to be emotionally overcome or bankrupt. To some extent one’s initial choice of a charity can be reasonably simple, as one inevitably will have favourites based on belief or strong feeling: giving to the Church, the dogs’ home, or a Service charity if serving in the armed forces for example. For the other choices I pose yet another moral dilemma for you to consider: should we be giving to a charity that pays the Chief Executive and a Board of Directors a vast salary? This was the subject of an in-depth discussion with a friend of ours some years ago: she said that a big charity needed to reward its management board generously, under the principle of “pay peanuts and you get monkeys”; I said it was iniquitous that a charity should have huge remuneration packages and costly overheads, particularly if the charity relied heavily on altruistically motivated volunteers at the working level. A friend once told me that he attended a meeting that involved various charity representatives at middle and higher management levels, and he was struck by the fact that every single attendee arrived in a brand new BMW. Is that morally right? Only 52% of UK charities reveal the salaries of their CEOs and only 10% of those publish the information on their website for all to see. In 2015 the CEO of Cancer Research UK received £240,000 in annual salary; the CEO of The Salvation Army received £15,500. There is a bit of a disparity there (though, to be fair, the Salvation Army does have some senior staff on £160,000). The Director General of the National Trust received £195,700 last year despite the trust relying a great deal on 53,000 volunteer guides and gardeners who receive nothing in the way of perks, other than free membership and a discount on catering. For once I am coming off the fence on this one: charity is big business, expensive real estate and a lucrative job for some; the first may be unavoidable but the others are not. My money is going to the charities that have the lowest overheads, the most relevance to me and the most visible outcomes. You are allowed to disagree.
On the Covid 19 front, the number of daily deaths in the UK is still falling, albeit more slowly, and currently stands at 532. The alert levels in England were reviewed on 16 December, with the result that London and several other regions have moved into the highest level, Tier 3 (roughly, no hospitality or accommodation venue open, no indoor mixing, no outdoor groups more than six). Other regions were also reviewed and it was hoped that rural areas might move into a less stringent tier instead of being lumped with large cities and conurbations. With a few minor exceptions, this has not happened, so we in Barsetshire are still stuck in Tier 2. A relaxation that allows three households to mix indoors over Christmas for five days is still going ahead, relying (for once) on people using their common sense and making a decision for themselves. Some parts of the Press and the medicos are up in arms about the relaxation, but the government is holding fast to its decision on the basis that the boost to morale offsets any potential increase in infection. Those who object to the brief relaxation seem to have missed the point that they, themselves, do not have to mix with anyone if they don’t want to – there is nothing stopping them from locking themselves up for the remainder of December if they wish. Having declared the relaxation, the government advises strongly that we use it sensibly and minimise the number of households mixing, along with the time spent together: the Covid 19 equivalent of the instruction, “Eat what you like but don’t swallow”. Vaccinations have started and about 138,000 have been immunised in the first week.
Our minds being so totally focussed on the nasty virus that is infecting the world, we have – quite understandably – taken our eyes off the ball being played in the great game of Brexit. The UK comes to the end of its transition period at midnight on 31 December 2020 and, after some fairly encouraging progress on negotiating a trade deal with the European Union (EU) that would replace the privileges of membership, the whole situation is up in the air again. As far as I can gather, the EU has walked back on some of the points tentatively agreed upon earlier. The sticking points are Fishing in British Territorial Waters (who can fish there and what they can catch) and Unfair Competition (no longer encumbered by EU regulation, the UK may be able to undercut EU producers). After all this time it would appear that the EU still cannot grasp the concept of sovereignty and why the UK voted to leave the EU. No side wishes to be the first to admit that it is withdrawing from negotiation so, theoretically, talks will continue up to midnight on New Year’s Eve. However it seems highly unlikely that an agreement will now be reached and, over four years after the UK population voted for it, the country will finally leave the EU and be independent again in fourteen days’ time – provided Boris Johnson does not renege on his election promise. This topic remains a highly controversial one in the UK and invariably invokes strong sentiments comparable with those held by the Royalists against the Parliamentarians in the English Civil War or Biden supporters against Trump supporters in the USA of 2020: friend against friend, brother against brother, wife against husband, father against son. After the Brexit referendum in 2016, one correspondent to The Times reported that he had been un-invited to a barbecue hosted by friends because he had voted ‘Leave’. I do not wish to fan the flames on the issue other than to observe that the UK has a difficult time ahead, but one that the country will overcome, just as it has in the past. One door closes, and another one opens: every problem is an opportunity.
“Don’t mention the War”.
So went the main theme of an episode called The Germans in the very successful comedy series Fawlty Towers, produced 45 years ago yet still popular and funny. There was an attempt in June to have the episode banned because the “snowflakes” of our modern society thought it was racist. I was reminded of that old song by Noel Coward, “Let’s Not Be Beastly To The Germans”. Fortunately, commons sense (for once) reigned supreme and the episode was reinstated, a decision vindicated by the revelation that John Cleese (the leading actor in the series) was once accosted in a restaurant in Germany by a fellow customer:
“John!”, the customer shouted across the restaurant. He looked round.
“Don’t mention zer var!”.
Everyone who spoke English laughed uproariously. And who said the Germans don’t have a sense of humour?
I was once told a joke by a colonel in the German airforce which would probably be banned by the sensitive flowers in our society who take pride in being able to take offence about just about everything these days. In Germany, apparently, the people of the region of Frisia in north western Germany are considered to be somewhat – how can I put it – lacking in sophistication and intelligence because of their strong accent. There was a man from Frisia who was an aspiring social climber, but grew tired of being challenged, whenever he met someone in Germany, with “Are you from Frisia?”; there would then follow a series of hurtful comments or jokes suggesting that he was not quite the full shilling. Determined to overcome his accent, he took extensive elocution lessons over a period of several months and, eventually, managed to speak perfect German, free of any accent: the German equivalent of the Queen’s English. Clutching his diploma, and determined to try out his polished speech, he went into a shop in Berlin.
“Good morning”, he said in perfect clear-cut German, “I would like two kilos of potatoes and half a kilo of carrots please”
“Good morning”, said the proprietor with a smile.”Tell me, are you from Frisia?”
“Yes”, said the man with great dismay. “But how can you tell?”
“Because this is a furniture shop”, said the proprietor.
I suppose the “Don’t Mention the War” theme is an example of a Freudian Slip. I was thinking about it when I read an account of the the play, Hobson’s Choice, which featured in a provincial theatre starring Julia McKenzie and Ronald Pickup some years ago. If you are not familiar with the play, it is about a Victorian boot maker called Hobson, whose daughter Maggie (played by McKenzie) is in love with the apprentice Willy Mossop (Pickup) and has great ambitions for his future as a craftsman. In the play, Maggie was required to summon Willy from the cellar. On his appearance, she was to say,
“Willy, show me your hands!”, and then to go on to convince him of the skills he had in his hands and the great future that could await him.
The little Freudian Gremlins got to work one night in the theatre, however, and when Willy appeared at the top of the cellar steps, what Maggie actually said was,
“Hans, show me your Willie!”.
Apparently Willy returned hastily back down to the cellar and Maggie directed her attention to a little impromptu dusting of the mantlepiece.
A faux pas worthy of myself, I feel.
As I write these concluding words, Jane has a mega-toot on about Covid (for not going away); the UK Government (for Everything); the Chancellor of the Exchequer (for extending the furlough scheme); the Royal Mail (for not delivering any post or Christmas cards for three days); teachers on quiz shows (for being ignorant); and teachers generally (for wanting more time off). Boy, was she going some and I was glad I was not in her direct line of sight. It was like sitting next to a spitting cobra. Only the arrival of an e-card and some snow scenes from a friend in New England managed to perk her up; that, and a glass of Rochester Extra Strong Dickensian Recipe Ginger Wine that I pressed into her hand. As the (non alcoholic) wine hit the back of her throat she spluttered and lost her voice completely, a fine example of using one fire to put out another. All is now calm; all is bright (especially her cheeks).
Never let it be said that the Shacklepin family is staid and out of touch. We have, this week, purchased and fitted the very latest item of technology, no expense spared. We have upgraded our house to include one of those vital aids to a gentleman’s comfort: a self-closing lavatory seat. This exciting acquisition came about as a result of Jane complaining that the existing item was somewhat tawdry and becoming difficult to clean. The self-closing feature was my own little addition, as a seat that falls down during full flow, so to speak, can be rather distracting to a gentleman. Kneepads squared off, and toolbox at the ready, I laboured away in the place of ease, fitting the new addition while Jane baked yet more minced pies. I called her in when I was finished, and – with a flourish – demonstrated the smooth action and many other features. She just looked at me.
“You’ve fitted it in the wrong lavatory, bozo. I wanted it in our en-suite bathroom, not here. Honestly…[she sighed]… you just don’t listen”.
She returned to the kitchen, shaking her head.
Bozo?
18 December 2020
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 