Another day in ‘solitary’. Well, sort of ‘solitary’: I still have Jane for company. I thought of scratching off the days on the walls of my cell, but thought better of it as I would undoubtedly be required to repair the marks with Polyfilla and re-emulsion them in the Spring. My, how January drags on. The first big lockdown was not quite so bad because the two of us did get out into the bundu every two days, or sat in the garden; this time, it has been considerably more confining and I have hardly been out at all. Mind you, that is not necessarily a hardship, for the weather has been quite bitter and has not encouraged outdoor exercise. Parts of Britain (notably, Up North) have been covered in snow, as predicted in Blog 75, but we have seen none of it here. Nevertheless it has still been quite cold, with occasionally a freezing wind. Winter in fact; now there’s a surprise. In writing this I am conscious of the fact that some of my readership is international. If you are reading this in Saskatchewan or Mongolia then the British Winter, with temperatures merely hovering around or just below 0 degrees C, will be just little potatoes but, heh, for us this is cold and any flake of snow brings the entire transport system to a halt. I may exaggerate slightly but, from the the annual warnings in the media about clearing windscreens and driving carefully on ice and snow, one could be excused for wondering if some of the British public had ever come across this season before. I remember my Canadian friends once telling me that the worst thing about Winter over there was the time it took to put on all their outer clothing before going out – and the time it took to take it all off again on return; popping out to the dustbins to ditch the gash without putting on warm clothing first really could put you at risk of hypothermia. We don’t get that. Mind you, Jane’s cousin from Calgary once commented to us about the continuous overcast and clag in Britain. How did we stand it? In Alberta it was either sunny (with or without cold and snow) or overcast and raining; the climate never, or hardly ever, reverted to weeks of low cloud. I pointed out to her that our rotten overcast weather was the reason why the British had gone out and created an empire.
Writing above that phrase, “never, or hardly ever”, which originated in Gilbert and Sullivan’s HMS Pinafore, reminds me that it was quoted so often in an American newspaper (I think it might have been the New York Times) in the 19th century that the editor of the paper grew weary of it and finally called all his journalists together to tell them that the practice was to cease: they were no longer to use the phrase, “…well, hardly ever” in their articles. Inevitably, someone at the back said,
“What, never?”,
and unthinkingly the editor replied,
“Well, hardly ever”.
I broke with my policy the other day and made the mistake of watching the television news:
“Another 48,000 cases of Covid 19 were reported yesterday and hospitals report that they are close to being overwhelmed. 1,248 people died from the virus in the last 24 hours…”, proclaimed the broadcaster in that urgent, thrusting headline tone that they use when trying to impart the fact that WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE. I found it profoundly depressing and frustrating. What, exactly, do they want me to do about it? Could they not focus on the good news, that (for example) over three million people have been immunised and that the inoculation programme is going well? Some opposition politicians and know-it-all journalists have urged even stricter controls on lockdown, but there are virtually no additional measures that can be taken: Jane and I are already holed up here like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (I will leave you to decide which is which) and shouting at us that WE ARE DOOMED or IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT is not helping the situation one iota. Actually, if you look at the Office of National Statistics (ONS) website, you will see that the rate of positive test results in Britain actually peaked on about 1 January (ie before the present lockdown) and is now dropping. In a similar vein, if you look at the death rate by date when the death occurred (as opposed to date when death reported) you get a more meaningful and lower figure (eg 873 cf 1,162 on 7 January). The death curve seems to follow the infection curve with a time lag of about two weeks, so we should be seeing the fatalities easing off by the end of the month. All that is not to say that the situation is not grave: we are experiencing more infections, more hospital admissions and more Covid-related deaths than ever before and our hospitals are running at over 80% occupancy. Hospital staff, already weary from the day-to-day grind of looking after patients are additionally overloaded by staff having to isolate if they or their family get the slightest sniffle. However, shouting at us when we and the majority of the public are following the lockdown rules is unhelpful, lowering the morale and could be counter-productive.
There have been some well-publicised cases of “rule breaking”, with police apparently breaking up a few private parties and raves, but we don’t get that sort of thing in sleepy Barsetshire. Two women drove separately to a beauty spot in Derbyshire last week to go for a walk, two metres apart, in the wild blue yonder of the Dales but were pounced upon by several police officers and fined for breaking the Covid lockdown rules; their big mistake was to carry take-away cups of tea, which the police said constituted a picnic. The fines have since been rescinded after a public outcry, but a more clearer case of police over-zealousness would be hard to find (Derbyshire police has form: in the first lockdown they pursued hill-walkers, hiking miles from anyone on the Derbyshire Dales, with a drone). In Bournemouth an agent provocateur, who did not agree with lockdown, tried sitting alone with a flask of coffee on a bench on the seafront in a brisk westerly wind. She was immediately challenged by at least four police officers and, when she refused to give her name and address, was arrested and led away in handcuffs. Your papers please… She undoubtedly was “trying it on” for publicity purposes (how else could it have been filmed for social media?), but the Dorset police fell for it. Did they really need to use four officers and use handcuffs? Part of the problem is that there is a dichotomy between what the law says (as laid down in legislation by Parliament) and what the UK government guidance says: the guidance says that the public can only exercise once a day “locally”; the actual legislation says that the public must stay at home, but can leave home to exercise – it does not specify a time limit, distance or frequency. The police can only enforce the law, not the guidance, but they have stated that some people are not ,“following the spirit of lockdown”. By contrast, some police forces are not following the spirit of common sense and the principle of minimising the spread of infection. A person walking (or sitting) on a windy seafront over two metres from others constitutes no risk to others whatsoever; likewise for people walking in the vastness of the countryside, with or without a cup of tea, or people driving in their own in cars. The British police have a proud reputation of policing by consent and this epidemic has put them in a difficult and invidious position with the public whom they serve. Most people would be sympathetic of the position they are in and would advocate a clamp-down on genuine rule breaking, but disproportionate and over zealous action by a few officers could result in the loss of support for all the police. That would be a great pity.
Enough of Covid, depressing subject anyway, let us move on to holidays. Have you noticed that the television advertisements are gradually moving away from charities to, now, pushing holidays abroad? I am astonished. I would not contemplate booking a holiday in the present circumstances for the simple reason that we have no idea just how things are going to pan out with the current restrictions, whether in this country or abroad; some clown of a scientist has already predicted, with customary gloom, that we will still be under the thumb even in the Autumn. Yet I read in my newspaper today that holiday bookings, particularly for the over 50s, are up 300% . I can understand the desire to get away, preferably in the sunshine, after all this, but I shan’t be thinking of it until it really is all over. Besides, we are saving quite a bit of money at the moment through not dining out, buying clothes, going to the theatre or entertaining: I can buy quite a few warps, gizmos and sundry other desirable items for the boat with that. Best not mention that possibility out loud.
I read an article in the paper by an Asian gentleman the other day, about the difficulties he had encountered in mixing and settling down among the social classes from public schools as an undergraduate in Oxford (or maybe Cambridge). The thrust of it was that “things ought to be done” to make his life easier in that regard for him and people like him. It was not clear to me if he was writing as an Asian, drawing on the currently popular claims of “white privilege”, or as a person from a middle or lower social class background trying to mix with the “knobs”. Either way, I was baffled. Moving on to, say, university invariably takes you away from the social mix in which you have been brought up and involves you mixing with people from all classes, colours and creeds. It is part of growing up and maturing. It broadens the mind, teaches tolerance, and helps us all get on better in society. Having been brought up on Tyneside with its flat vowels and (at that time) fairly parochial outlook, I remember being baffled by some of my fellow Cadets’ accents and mien when I joined the Royal Navy. The bits that stuck in my memory were their odd names (some double-barrelled) and the practice of carrying an umbrella: you did not carry an umbrella if you were male and lived in South Shields; not if you wanted a quiet life. It did not take me long to merge in (the accent took longer) and we all got along together famously. Some years ago I read a book about National Service in the UK (a compulsory requirement to complete 18 months of military service that ran from 1949 to 1960): it was a compendium of short accounts by men from all walks of life who had had to do it. Most just got on with it, some resented it, but quite a few acknowledged the fact that National Service had broadened their outlook, opened their minds to the depths that human nature could descend to, allowed them to mix with people from all social classes, smartened them up, taught them tolerance, and – in some cases – allowed them to experience life abroad. Returning to the article by the new undergraduate, I just wonder if his view (which I may have misunderstood) may have been symptomatic of the latest student attitude that could be summarised as “I don’t want to hear your point of view and I don’t want to mix with you”. I may be wrong on this specific instance, but I still think that mixing with all, listening, debating differences and tolerating others are all part of growing up and living in society. Incidentally, none of the British armed forces would advocate a return to National Service today: it would take too long to train men and women up to the technological standard required to achieve a useful return on investment. Mind you, it might actually educate a few young people, teach them how to wash and shave, give them some pride in their appearance and help them realise the importance of working as part of a team or community instead of being self-centred. You never see a squaddy wandering the streets half-shaven, in pyjamas and flip flops.
Should parts in dramas, plays and films only be filled by actors or actresses of like colour or sexual preference? This is what has been advocated by a dramatist, who has suggested that homosexual parts should only be played by homosexuals. The Dickens character David Copperfield was recently played by an Asian and Anne Boleyn is shortly to be played by a black woman: is this dramatist advocating that this was, or is, wrong? Should a heterosexual only be played by a heterosexual? There could be a lot more out-of-work actors or actresses if this policy were followed. Surely the whole concept of acting is in the name: actors and actresses pretend to be someone else and there are some excellent examples of how well they do it. Conclusion: this is yet another example of woke nonsense.
I see that a Russian naval captain has been charged with selling his destroyer’s propellers and replacing them with poorer quality replacements. I must say that this is the most extreme case of capabar that I have ever come across. The ship was in dry dock at the time, so at least he didn’t have to hold his breath while wielding the spanner. Corruption in the Russian Navy is, according to the newspaper report, fairly commonplace but even in that environment the theft of a pair of manganese bronze propellers weighing several tons each must surely take the biscuit.
Well, the diet is going very well (I knew you’d be interested). I am coming to the end of Week 2 now and have yet to have a meal that has not been tasty and enjoyable. At weigh-in last Monday, after one week, I had lost 3.2 kg (7 lb), much to my astonishment. The exercise bike project is going well too, though I have yet to procure the outfit and am having to make do with an old shirt and walking shorts. Oh yes, I feel like a new man (no, this is not an invitation, so don’t write).
At a time when the term “fake news” has become commonplace I am reminded of an instance when faulty information led to unpleasant consequences. This was a true story told to me by a friend about the process of obtaining security clearance for Service personnel. All government personnel are subject to the Official Secrets Act and have clearance to see documents up to a certain level on a need-to-know basis, officers routinely up to Secret. For access beyond that level (required for certain appointments) they have to undergo a process that used to be called Positive Vetting (PV), now called Developed Vetting. This involved completing a lengthy questionnaire on dubious things you might have done in the past, extensive probing into your finances and dealings, and interviews with people who knew you. The aim was to assess whether you were vulnerable to blackmail, bribery or sexual temptation, to check your character and (by re-running the process later), to check if you were prone to lying. For the Royal Navy, this process was done by the Director of Naval Security (DNSy) who employed retired officers for the front line work. The story goes that one officer who had to be vetted was serving in a frigate and was told he would be interviewed. One day, the DNSy interviewer duly turned up at the dockyard gate, showed his identification, and was directed to the frigate’s berth. About an hour after his arrival the telephone rang at the dockyard gate and was picked up by a constable of the Ministry of Defence Police (known in the vernacular as The MOD Plod). The conversation apparently ran something like this:
Constable: “St Levan’s Gate”
Caller: “Is that Devonport Dockyard?”
Constable: “Yes, it is”
Caller: “DNSy here. We are putting out an alert because we’ve had a series of incidents in which someone has been impersonating one of our vetting officers and infiltrating MOD property. They claim to be a Commander Ponsonby and the description is that he is a short man in his fifties, greying black hair, fair complexion, walks with a slight limp. If encountered he should be apprehended at once and held for questioning”
Constable: “Strap me! He just passed through the gate about an hour ago. He said he was visiting HMS CANTALOUPE”.
Caller: ”Excellent. We may have caught him. You must apprehend him immediately”.
Now the members of the MOD Plod spend most of their days in a gatehouse, twiddling their thumbs and thinking up new ways of making life even more difficult and obnoxious for honest sailors of the Royal Navy (this, an unbiased point of view). There is not a lot of love lost between the force and the civilian police force either, not least because the latter have to run around actually trying to catch criminals. Whatever, this telephone call was just what the dockyard police had been waiting for for years: a chance to do something exciting and positive.
Fast forward to the scene at HMS CANTALOUPE, lying alongside the wall at 7 Wharf (or wherever). It was a relatively peaceful dockyard setting on a quiet weekday in harbour: some light dockyard traffic passed along the jetty; a few sailors on stages were painting the ship’s side trying to avoid the Chief Boatswain’s Mate; the quartermaster was strolling up and down at the gangway wishing his watch would end; the White Ensign was flying from its staff, stiff in the breeze. On the whole, pretty quiet apart from the cry of the odd seagull, the characteristic hiss of air cooling the ship’s radar system and the distant roar of steam from a ship that was flashing up further down the jetty. Suddenly, into this gentle nautical scene came a screech of tyres, and round the corner of a building hurtled a Black Maria that then shuddered to a stop at the ship’s gangway. Up the brow charged four large MOD Plods who challenged the quartermaster on whether he had seen the imposter.
“He’s with Lieutenant Podgson in his cabin”, said the bemused quartermaster gesturing towards the screen door and the cabin flat. They moved purposefully forward.
Meanwhile, in the cabin, the DNSy man was just getting on to the juicier bits of his interview with Lieutenant Podgson concerning that last run ashore in Malta. Suddenly the cabin door was hurtled open and, without any challenge or introduction, he was picked up bodily by four large policemen. He was bundled unceremoniously along the upper deck and then dragged down the gangway with his heels bumping a rat-a-tat-tat on the treads of the brow. Still protesting, he was thrown into the back of the Black Maria and the vehicle shot off. Peace descended again, the members of the ship’s company of CANTALOUPE who were on deck wondering if they had imagined it all.
Several hours later, after a long interrogation, a few telephone calls and some harsh words, the DNSy man was released. The call had been a hoax with the aim of retribution on the DNSy man for some ancient grievance. Now that is what I call fake news, but it entertained the ship for many years to come.
Thinking of interrogation, just as the Police and Criminal Evidence Act (PACE) controls the extent that police interview techniques can go, so the Geneva Convention dictates and limits the form that interrogation can take. Traditionally, a captured serving officer may only be required to submit his name, rank and service number to his captors. Ships’ officers always have a range of other duties in addition to their primary task and one officer will always be designated as the Interrogation or Intelligence Officer, his or her role being to interrogate captured enemy personnel, such as divers trying to attack the ship. As part of their training they have to complete a course which, naturally, includes being interrogated themselves and on how to resist questioning. There was one chap who was in this position and went on the designated course, which was part run by the Special Boat Service (SBS) – part of the Royal Marines and a rival to the more well-known Special Air Service (SAS) in the cadre that we call Special Forces. He was given a secret password and told he was not to reveal it under any circumstances during a forthcoming interrogation. For the sake of the story, let us say that the password was “Hungerford”. Taken into a bare interrogation room that was furnished with just a table, two upright chairs and an incongruous galvanised bucket, he glanced warily at the two SBS men who were to interrogate him. He sat down opposite one of the Marines while the other Marine wandered the room randomly. They started questioning him, the seated man shouting and yelling, the standing man asking him more gently: the standard “hard and soft man” technique. He stood firm, repeating his name, rank and service number,
“I know my rights under the Geneva Convention”, he said, ”I cannot reveal that password. You cannot torture me or hurt me in any way”, he said, folding his arms and smiling smugly.
Without warning, the Marine behind him picked up the galvanised bucket, upended it over the officer’s head, and proceeded to beat the sides with a hammer: PING PANG PING PANG PING PANG reverberated around the interior.
“The password is Hungerford! Hungerford! For God’s sake stop!”
Game, set and match to the SBS, I think. And no animals were hurt in the course of that interrogation.
It’s a bit odd really. We are both sneezing around the place as if we had head colds, but have no cough, sore throat or fever: just the sneeze. I say ‘odd’, because we have not been out so cannot have caught anything from anyone. I proffered a theory that might explain it: we are allergic to something. A squirt up the nose with antihistamine solved the problem and Dr Shacklepin scored yet again with another successful diagnosis. But what are we allergic to? It cannot be an allergy to pollen at this time of year. What else? Then, at breakfast, I hit on a possibly cause: dust mites. Stuck indoors with no fresh air, we are breathing in an excess of dust. I voiced this hypothesis with great triumph. At that moment there was a distinct chilling in the atmosphere, as if some manifestation had been conjured up from the depths of the Mariana Trench. I felt distinctly uncomfortable and looked up from my reading.
“What?”, I said.
“Are you implying”, she said with an icy voice,”that I keep a dirty house?”
“Ah. Nay, nay my dear”, I replied, working up to Full Astern. “I was referring to the little creatures who live with us, your Dermatophagoides pteronyssinus, those pesky creatures. They positively relish a clean house, just like us humans. No, no, the house is immaculate…maybe that has encouraged them…”, I trailed off.
“Hmmm.” She looked at me as if I were a house mite myself. “Just watch it”.
Now, just drop your trousers and bend over. This won’t hurt. Oh, you’d rather give me your arm? OK.
15 January 2021
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 
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