The first signs of a crumbling civilisation are beginning to show. I refer not to the continuing open arrest of British citizens in their own country, nor to the compulsory wearing of face nappies on boats in Force 8 gales; not even to the riots in Bristol and Northern Ireland. No, I refer to the decision by the up-market supermarket chain, Waitrose, no longer to stock shoe polish. Apparently the long period of lockdown, with many folk working from home, has meant people have stopped polishing their shoes and so the demand for Cherry Blossom has fallen away. I am horrified. Mind you, it is my experience, from wandering the towns and cities of our country, that few people outside the armed forces polished their shoes these days anyway: I have been appalled by the filthy shoes worn by some men, even on formal occasions such as with morning or evening dress; and as to wearing dirty white, orange or fluorescent plimsolls instead of proper shoes – well – I think my views have been well recorded here. No, this is the beginning of the end – mark ye well – and I have directed the memsahib to buy up the last remaining tins of Cherry Blossom or Kiwi in black, tan and dark brown so that the stocks will see me out. Dear, oh dear, oh dear.
I have always polished my shoes from as far back as I can remember, but it was the Navy that introduced me to the concept of “bulling” shoes and boots: literally using spit and polish to produce a high-gloss finish. There is something very calming and meditative in sitting there, bulling shoes and boots; it complements the philosophy of W H Davies in his poem,
“What’s our life,
If full of care
You have no time
To stop and stare?”
I never did manage to achieve the perfect bulled finish on my boots and shoes in an entire naval career (and ‘no’, I did not have a steward to do it for me); I came close once or twice, but I always came in second. At the BRITANNIA Royal Naval College, Dartmouth I overcame this problem by a useful Memorandum of Understanding with my best friend and cabin mate, Hand Major (Blog 67), who had developed expert skill at bulling, but zero skill at tying a bow tie: he bulled my boots and shoes for weekly Divisions (parade) for me and I fastened his uniform black bow tie for him every evening. Sadly the bubble burst on this cosy and very stable arrangement when the ratbag taught himself the art of bow tie fastening, a betrayal for which – frankly – I have never forgiven him. Never mind. As it stands today, I still bull my shoes on a regular basis and still with the second class result, but I draw comfort from the fact that even my shoes look outstanding in a sea of grubby footwear. What is the world coming to, when the supply of shoe polish is allowed to dry up?
Thinking of that statement that I have always polished my shoes reminds me that I think I have always worn a tie too. I was born at the age of 40, you see. We still have a photograph of me at Junior School at the age of seven, sitting there cross-legged and wearing a tie with a rather smart tie pin (and, of course, wearing polished brown leather shoes). We did not have a school uniform, but I recall being keen to present a good turn out. At Dartmouth, the standard of dress was, naturally, very important at all times – whether in uniform or plain clothes. A Cadet intending to go ashore (leave the College) in the evening – always in plain clothes – had to “excuse his rig” to the Duty Sub Lieutenant in the Gunroom at supper time, and might well be sent away and told to “…come back dressed properly as an officer”, such requirement implicitly including the wearing of a shirt, tie, flannels and jacket: naval “dog robbers”. “Trainers” had not been invented then, but their exclusion from this ensemble would have been axiomatic, as was denim. Before going ashore, we would be fallen in – still in plain clothes – and inspected again, a procedure known as “liberty boat”; we could not just pop out for a drink in the town at random: we had to become accustomed to going ashore at a set time as if catching a boat. The practice, by the way, of excusing one’s rig from the senior officer present in uniform in the wardroom is a fine polite tradition that was still practised in the Fleet when I retired in 2002 (and I hope it still is); you might be a Commander, but you would still routinely excuse your rig on entering the Mess in plain clothes, even if the señor officer present in uniform were a mere Midshipman. It would be a rash junior officer, however, who declined the request of a senior and invited him or her to go away and come back properly dressed. A dress code is usually laid down in all wardrooms, as it is in all military messes, and usually includes the requirement to wear a tie (for males, at least). The exception in many wardrooms was that, for Afternoon Tea, one could dispense with the tie and jacket in the Mess if one wore a cravat or – paradoxically – wore sports rig. I always found it odd that I could enter the Mess for tea and crumpet while wearing malodorous sweaty squash gear and gym shoes, but would be banned from entering with an open necked shirt, slacks and shoes. I daresay all this sounds terribly Nöel Coward today and, even in uniform, we have discontinued the wearing of boiled and stiffly starched shirts, worn with wing collars and bow ties in the wardroom for dinner, so I would imagine plain clothes dress codes have advanced too. However, the principle of smart dress in the Mess is still important in my opinion, and consider the dreadful alternative: I attended a reunion a few years ago and it was held in the wardroom of the naval shore base of HMS DRAKE in Devonport by kind agreement of the Mess President. There we all stood wearing our suits and ties and clutching our drinks in the Wardroom Ante Room. A huge television blared away in the corner with the latest football match and a member of the wardroom came in wearing a tee shirt, tattoo, jeans and trainers; he ignored us, and flopped down on a bar stool with a pint of beer. I thought for a moment that I had entered a Junior Ratings Messdeck by mistake, or possibly a four-ale bar in downtown Plymouth. Excuse my rig? No, go away and come back dressed like an officer.
There used to be a chain of gentlemen’s outfitters in Britain called Dunns: a very sound and dependable establishment with a good range of sensible clothing which, alas, closed for good some time ago. It was a milestone in a man’s life when he, who once would have passed the shop window with nary a glance, would suddenly stop and say to himself,
“Hmmm, those trousers look quite smart…”.
Well, Dunns is no longer with us, but I am conscious of having just crossed yet another milestone in maturity: I have subscribed to the The Oldie magazine. I had considered it before, but had always rejected the idea because the very name implied senility on the part of a subscriber and I am – of course – permanently of the age of 40. However, more and more often I would read a well-written extract or article from The Oldie and think,
“Gosh, that is very wise and profound. I must try that magazine”.
So now, as I approach the pinnacle of wisdom at the age of 70, I have acknowledged that I am officially Old. Oh dear: no more Lego Technic sets for Christmas now, I suppose.
The UK weather is still mucking about, with the week starting at temperatures of up to 22C, but ending (as predicted) with snow showers, Arctic winds and freezing nights. I actually wore a short-sleeved shirt the other day and basked in the sunshine; Jane was spotted wearing a skirt with no tights. Now I am back wearing my thick shirt and seaman’s jersey, thick socks and insulated boots. This does not bode well for our week’s stay on the boat next week and the memsahib is already muttering about wearing her furry insulated trousers, several vests and Fairisle sweaters, and that’s just in bed. Twas ever thus.
On the Covid front in the UK it still blows hot and cold: admissions to hospital and deaths are right down and still dropping, and the vaccination programme is still running to time, but there is no intention of advancing the easing of restrictions; indeed – it would appear that I will still be wearing a face mask when snug in my coffin. As I write, the number of hospital admissions in the UK in the last 24 hours stands at 248 (dropping 24% weekly) and deaths attributable to Covid at 20 (dropping at 45% weekly), this in a population of about 68 million people. About 32 million people have received their first dose of vaccine (62% of the adult population), six million have received their second dose. The number of all deaths in England and Wales is below the 5-year average for the third week running. There is much talk, still, of the concept of “Covid passports” – documents that prove that the bearer has been vaccinated – that might be used to enable the bearer to leave the country, enter clothes shops or be admitted to certain venues. The pros and cons of such a document are being hotly debated. I have no strong views either way, other than the fact that I would be in favour of a “Covid passport” if it allowed me to enter a shop or restaurant, travel on public transport, or stand in the open air on the Dartmouth Higher Ferry without being forced to wear a face covering. As it stands, and as I have predicted before, it looks like we will be wearing these face nappies until next year at the earliest. I hate face coverings; did you guess?
“So we are paying out £40 a year in order to be able to fly a flag?”
With astute logic, my wife had unswervingly homed in on the nub of the matter embarrassingly well, as usual. I shifted in my seat uncomfortably.
“Well yes. Sort of. But I do get to use mooring buoys in some harbours that no-one else can use. Also, I support naval sailing as a recreation”
“And how many times have we used their mooring buoys?”
“I can’t quite remember exactly”
“Approximately then”
“Errm…approximately none. But I might do in the future”
“Hmmm…”
We were discussing my membership of the Royal Naval Sailing Association, the RNSA, and the pros and cons of remaining a member. The only tangible pro is that, on my boat, I get to fly the club burgee with its august naval crown, and to fly the exclusive Blue Ensign rather than the ubiquitous Red Ensign of the British Merchant Marine. I have not actually “sailed” as such (as in “Ready about…: Lee-oh!”) since 1972 or thereabouts and, although the RNSA does welcome motor boat owners, the Association – for obvious reasons – is dominated by those who own ketches, yawls, catamarans, dinghies and sailboards. There is no club house and, although there is the occasional get-together, the social side of the Association – for me at any rate – is non-existent. I joined because I wanted literally to show the flag and promote the Royal Navy in my travels, to support recreational sailing (which I used to enjoy and which I feel should be encouraged in the navy) and – let me be honest here – for the élite privilege of flying the Blue Ensign: it is the Platinum Badge of nautical recreation, and I am a great one for striving to obtain Platinum Badges in all walks of life. But the memsahib had a point: £40 a year, though modest in the great scheme of things, is a relatively generous amount to shelve out for just flying a flag. No decision has been made on the matter, but the minutes of the meeting record that the item will be reviewed next January when the RNSA subscription comes up for renewal.
I mention the trivia of the RNSA subscription, above, because the subject of flying our national flag, was in our news a few weeks ago. The British are not good on their national flag; they cannot even agree on what it is called: some insist on calling it the Union Flag, while others prefer the more universal and less clumsy, Union Jack. Certainly, when it is flown on the bows of a Royal Navy warship that is moored, anchored or secured alongside it is referred to as the jack, and the staff it flies from is the jackstaff. The flag is only worn when the ship is secure; it is never worn while under way except on special occasions such as HM The Queen’s Birthday, when moored warships are dressed overall. Some say that that is the only situation when the flag may be called the Union Jack; at all other times it is the Union Flag. I have read the arguments on both sides of the debate (it was a long winter) and the general view from those in authority, such as the Flag Institute, is that the British national flag is called the Union Jack, and it was defined as such by the Admiralty in 1902 and by Parliament in 1908. So there. The Union Jack represents the Union: the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, combining the red-on-white St George Cross of England, the white-on-blue St Andrew saltire of Scotland and the red-on white St Patrick saltire of Ireland (pity about the Welsh, but their Principality was considered to be already part of England when the flag was invented in the 17th century). Further controversy surrounds the flying of the Union Jack upside down. This used to be a signal of distress, but with the ship on fire and sinking I cannot imagine someone taking the trouble to haul down the jack, reverse it, and re-hoist it again; in any case – very, very few people would notice the difference. During WWII, a senior warship exchanged the following signals with a junior:
[Senior ship]: YOUR JACK IS UPSIDE DOWN.
[Junior Ship]: THIS IS HOW IT WAS RECEIVED FROM NAVAL STORES OFFICER PORTSMOUTH.
[Senior Ship]: SOME PEOPLE WOULD DRINK SULPHURIC ACID IF IT CAME IN A GIN BOTTLE.
The prominence of the Union Jack in the British press recently came about because a government Minister was interviewed on Zoom by the BBC and the journalists afterwards made snide mocking remarks because the minister had had a Union Jack displayed behind him on the screen. Unlike the Americans, who are proud of their country and their flag, the British are embarrassed by patriotism or any overt reference to it, and this is particularly acute at present, with woke-ism, recriminations regarding slavery 300 years ago, and Empire denial being rife. Very few houses in Britain fly a Union Jack and anyone who does so is considered mildly eccentric or retired military or both. The snide remarks of the journalists reflected that stance to some extent but, more significantly, reflected the anti-establishment views so typical of the BBC today and that, I think, is why so many people were outraged by the remarks: the annoyance was not about mocking the Union Jack, but mocking what it stood for. My disgust with the BBC knows no bounds and the sooner we abolish the compulsory licence fee that funds the corporation, the better as far as I am concerned. Also, the Director General of the BBC has been added to my List.
I conclude with some good news and some bad news. Regular readers may recall that, in Blog 67, I posed the conundrum of which of your friends and relatives – if any – you would reward with a gift of money if you won the UK National or Euromillion Lottery. The good new is that Jane and I have given the matter a considerable amount of thought and we have decided that, if we were to win £120 million, we would give £1 million to each of our friends (as a couple). We might even be able to stretch to £50 for every reader. There now. Mind you, that is not quite as generous as you might think, because we actually don’t have that many friends (Jane makes them, I seem to lose them), nor all that many readers. The definition of “friends”, as posed in Blog 67, is academic for I now have to give you the bad news: under UK tax law I can only give you a gift of £3,000 tax free in a tax year; anything over that amount would be taxable. True, I could possibly give £3k each to Him and Her, and Jane the same, bringing the total gift to £12k for a couple (I must ask my financial adviser), but – alas – no million for you (or not unless you want to subsidise the United Kingdom to the tune of 40% of the value of the gift). Oh yes, I forgot to mention also that the other problem is that we haven’t actually won £120 million yet. Sorry about that, but it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?
Gosh I feel magnanimous today: I am infused with a rosy glow after that gesture.
Hang on in there: not long to go now. Well, not unless you live in Brazil or continental Europe.
9 April 2021
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 