You know, there’s something about a steam cleaner. When you’ve started cleaning with it, you just can’t put it down. It’s a bit like when you use a pressure washer: you clean up a bit of the front drive and you think, “Wow, this is really good”, so you move on to pressure-wash the path; then maybe a bit of the wall; then you do the public pavement in front of the house; maybe you then start on the garage roof, which starts to look great. At that point the front door hurtles open and your wife says,
“In! Get in! You’ve been doing this for three hours, the light’s fading and the neighbours will start to complain. Put it away, come in, and wash your hands for supper”.
Or something like that.
I digress slightly, but the steam cleaner has a similar influence. I deployed the beast the other day to steam-clean the shower screen in our en-suite bathroom and, when I’d finished, I thought, “Hmm. I wonder if it can clean the grout between the floor tiles?”, so I gave that a go. Brilliant! However, the steam blasted the muck out but, of course, it didn’t extract it, so I had criss-cross muddy lines all over the bathroom floor. So I filled the washbasin with water and mopped up the dirt with a convenient sponge, rinsing between mopping. In the process Jane’s electric toothbrush may have been knocked into the sink and, inadvertently, the wrong sponge may have been used, that is to say, the blue ‘clean’ sponge used for cleaning the taps and the sink, not the red ‘horrible’ sponge used to clean the lavatory pan and fittings [note my masterly use of the passive third person there]. The mopping up operation was going quite well, in my humble opinion, when Jane appeared to ask what I was doing (I having been absent from her influence for a suspiciously long time). It was then that she noticed the sponge I was using, the filthy water in the washbasin, and her electric toothbrush bobbing around in the aforementioned water like a nuclear submarine negotiating an industrial river contaminated with sewage. She was, to say the least, not at all pleased. Some harsh and unkind words were spoken. In vain I pointed out the new cleanliness of the bathroom floor, the spotless shower door and the potential for further cleaning opportunities using the properties of saturated steam. I even offered to steam-clean and sterilise her toothbrush. No, I was ordered to put it all away and to clear off while she recovered the bathroom from its grubby state (floor excepted), replaced one grubby sponge, scoured the bathroom washbasin, and decontaminated one electric toothbrush. There’s just no pleasing some people.
England has become a nation of vexillophiles and local councils are furious. Vexillology, in case you didn’t know (do buck up), is the study of flags. No, not the flags that your mother scrubbed with Vim on her hands and knees in 1955 when you had a stone kitchen floor; I mean the other flags: bunting, the Union Jack, the St George Cross. It all started when the good burghers of Epping, a leafy suburb north of London, started objecting to illegal immigrants being housed in a hotel in the town. This was partly because they objected to free luxury accommodation being used to house illegal immigrants, partly because they did not want the immigrants in their nice town (the immigrants were/are free to come and go, without confinement in the hotel), but mainly because some of the immigrants had been accused of sexually assaulting some local school girls (since proven in the courts). Public demonstrations sprang up outside the hotel, the local council successfully obtained a court order ordering HM Government to house the immigrants elsewhere (a judgement since overturned), and the demonstrators began waving – wait for it – flags depicting the St George Cross, St George being the patron saint of England, just as the Scots have St Andrew, the Welsh have St David and the Irish have St Patrick. Oh dear. What started as a quiet public demonstration by decent people was immediately deemed to be an extreme right-wing riot. Counter demonstrations sprang up in favour of the illegal immigrants (‘no immigration is illegal’), so more flags appeared: Union Jacks and St George flags, some on lampposts, as a gesture of solidarity for the original demonstrators. The bunting spread beyond Epping to other towns, cities and districts all over England. Variations on a theme sprang up, with mini-roundabouts and potholes spray-painted with the cross of St George. It was then that local councils intervened, claiming that all those flags flying from lampposts and public property had to be removed as they were ‘dangerous to health and safety’. Those mini roundabouts with a red cross (now much more visible) were apparently disfigured with graffiti and would be scoured clean. No mention was made of the several towns and inner cities where Palestinian flags or LGBT Rainbow flags are similarly displayed – no, those Union Jacks and St George crosses must be taken down.
You know, it’s a funny old thing: in all my time on this planet, working in the Armed Forces in what might be termed a varied and fairly dangerous environment, I have never come across a flag injuring anyone. Moreover, in all my travels I have never come across any other country that appears to be ashamed of, and bans, its national flag. Council employees throughout England were directed to remove the flags from lampposts; the next day the flags were back up again for, if there is one thing that annoys and characterises the English, it is being told, in a free country, that they cannot do something that is perfectly within the law. People will do it out of sheer imbuggerance (a fine example of the English vernacular), in defiance of petty authority. As I write, there are Union Jacks and St George flags everywhere. English men and women are driving out at night with step ladders and flags to decorate almost every urban lamppost, and it is driving local councils wild with frustration. As to central government, our lords and masters seem stunned by the strength of feeling that has suddenly burst forth. I cannot resist the cliché that They just don’t get it.
Free speech, or lack of it, continues to dominate the news in Britain. An Irish-born comedian, who wrote some unpleasant things about transgender people in a ‘tweet’ on X while he was away in the USA, was welcomed home to Britain by five armed police officers at Heathrow Airport. They arrested him and took him off to be interrogated and charged with being offensive. He is currently on bail, but there are unconfirmed reports that he has returned to the USA and is claiming political asylum. Hmm: an Irish citizen, ‘tweeting’ on an American social media platform while in that country is then arrested on his return to the UK. Jurisdiction lawyers in three countries will have a field day. Apparently, in my country one is not allowed to state that one has to have been born a biological woman, ie with XX chromosomes, to be called a ‘woman’ or female human. I couldn’t possibly comment. Apparently it is also against British law to offend people. Gosh, I do it inadvertently almost every day; the country and my past are littered with folk who somehow found me offensive. Oh dear. Anyway, there is a fine brouhaha over the entire incident, not least because the Metropolitan Police deemed it necessary to use five officers to physically arrest the man (ie a human with XY chromosomes) as he left the aircraft. Unlike in the rest of the UK, police officers at major British airports are armed in these troubled times, so that explains the fact that the arresting officers were carrying firearms; however, using them for this arrest made the incident even more disproportionate. The fact is that, putting aside whether this man had committed an offence, the Metropolitan Police could just as easily have written him a letter when he got home, asking him to come in to the nearest police station to discuss his ‘tweets’. Some fairly junior officer – an Inspector perhaps, or even a Sergeant – must have thought that sending in the riot squad with body armour, Glock 17 pistols and Hekler & Koch MP5SF carbines would send just the right message to the rest of us to keep our fingers off our keyboards. I trust whoever made that decision was invited to a meeting with the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, without coffee being provided.
As outlined in my last Blog (Blog 143), we enjoyed a splendid lunch in Portland last week, if that is not an oxymoron. I make that last remark because my naval memories of the Island of Portland, which hangs off the Dorset coast, are as bleak as the island itself. I have written about the place before and I refer the honourable reader to my missive in Blog 93. For those who are pressed for time, I summarise by saying that Portland (joined to the mainland by a causeway that rarely floods) was previously the location of the naval base HMS OSPREY, home of Flag Officer Sea Training, whose staff conducted Operational Sea Training on all British warships (and some European ones) in preparation for them entering the Fleet after building or after a refit. The very necessary experience usually lasted six weeks and subjected ships’ companies to all the elements that war, peacekeeping or the sea could throw at them: fire; flood; collision; disaster relief ashore; air, submarine or surface action; attack by divers; piracy; smuggling; replenishment at sea; steaming through fog….the exercises were relentless and continued night and day for the whole period. By the end of the ‘workup’, as it is known colloquially, ships’ companies were highly efficient as a team and better for the experience, but were left with an unerring hate of the bleak, wind-swept island where the whole thing had taken place. I do know of two friends who were in ships actually based at Portland (as opposed to passing through on workup), and they have fond memories of the local hostelries, the sea, the sand and the fun (the ‘fun’ presumably being the enjoyment of observing fellow sailors suffering as they jumped through hoops); those two friends are the exception to the general rule. The naval base closed in 1995 and workup now takes place in Plymouth which, in my opinion, lacks the bleakness of war that Portland Naval Base managed to inculcate, but times change and we must change with them. Portland is now Portland Port, a commercial undertaking, and it was there that Jane and I enjoyed the splendid lunch last week.
I had not been back to Portland since a bleak and traumatic workup in HMS NONSUCH in January 1991, and I approached the island warily, as if expecting a bomb to go off at any minute; but, heh, a free lunch is a free lunch. The meal was onboard the small cruise ship, mv HEBRIDEAN PRINCESS which offers cruises, generally of only seven days’ duration, around the Scottish Isles. She only carries forty eight passengers and so is able to provide a high-quality, homely, individual experience with top cuisine as part of an all-in package. Typically, she will anchor off an island overnight then, after a relaxing breakfast, passengers will be disembarked by boat to explore the island on a guided tour which might include a local garden, a religious settlement such as Jura, or local cuisine depending on the theme of the cruise. After re-embarkation of passengers in the afternoon, the ship weighs anchor and moves on to the next island or location before anchoring for the night, and so on. There are usually two Gala nights (black tie) and occasionally there is a guest speaker or a performance by local artistes, but generally the passengers make their own entertainment, relaxing, playing bridge, reading or whatever. If bad weather is expected, the programme is adjusted and the ship runs for shelter among the myriad of islands or along the Scottish coast. As I stated in my last blog, the type of cruise offered is right up our street so we accepted the invitation of a free lunch and tour of the ship with alacrity. We were not disappointed. The day proved a super adventure, not least because it provided the opportunity for me to see how much Portland had changed in thirty four years, and to put the ghost of my memories to rest.
The first thing I noticed after we had crossed the causeway was the derelict concrete shell of the former HMS OSPREY wardroom (officers’ mess). I think I am correct in saying that, in 1991, it was very new and the most modern shore-based wardroom in the Royal Navy: a two or maybe three storey edifice built like a hotel, with large double-glazed windows and very comfortable accommodation that could be used by visiting families at the weekend when husbands were recovering from fighting wars. Now, it is an empty shell, windowless, covered in graffiti, like some relic of East Germany. I have no idea why it was not converted into a hotel when the navy moved out; it would have been perfectly suited for the task, but there it is. I am not sure what happened to the adjacent Senior Rates accommodation, which was just as modern; I did not have time to explore. Perhaps that faired better. Next stop was the dockyard gate, which was still there, but now the entrance to the commercial Portland Port. We had been told to bring photo ID to get in, and this was duly scrutinised and our names checked off. We were told to drive up the road, turn left, then report to the cruise terminal (a new addition) about 400 yards away, which we duly did. While we were conducting the usual family debate about where to park there was a tap on the window. It was a port policeman who asked what we were doing. I explained.
“Ah”, he said,”You shouldn’t be here. Park in the visitors’ carpark by the main gate. Just drive up to the barrier and it will lift. A bus will take you to the ship. The staff will issue you with passes and so on”.
So back we drove to the visitors’ carpark and stopped at the entrance barrier, and waited. And waited. Nothing happened. In the end, I backed up, drove around the port again, and entered the carpark through the exit. We clambered out of the car and made our way to a nearby Mercedes mini-bus, which was waiting to take us back to the ship, 400 yards away. Our photo ID was checked again and we were issued with lanyard passes. Crikey, I thought, this place is security and health and safety gone mad: I have managed to get access to MOD nuclear facilities with less rigmarole than this, and why on earth could we not walk through the port? I thought of the many times I had made my way though HM Dockyards, stumbling over train lines, tripping on caissons, avoiding dry docks and bumping into discarded gun turrets; strolling through the new Portland Port would be like taking a walk in the park by comparison. Whatever, off we went in the luxury Mercedes, which never got out of second gear, through a further security gate to draw up next to the ship, which was secured against what I think used to be ‘Q’ pier. It is now called the Deep Water Berth. The ship was reassuringly conventional. Unlike a modern cruise ship, with its many decks spiralling off into the clouds like a floating wedding cake, HEBRIDEAN PRINCESS was constructed on traditional lines: trim, solid, robust and businesslike. She had been built in 1964 as a car ferry for service among the Western Isles of Scotland, with scantlings to deal with the worst seas the Minch could throw at her. Since then the car deck has been converted into accommodation and the whole ship reconfigured. There was no sign of her age and she was as neat as a new pin: 236 feet overall with a beam of 46 feet, black hull, white superstructure, red funnel and not the slightest sign of rust streaks, dents or wear and tear (of course, I looked very carefully). We made short work of the brow and were greeted onboard by the Managing Director himself, who directed us to a very comfortable lounge overlooking the foredeck. A smiling steward presented us with a glass of Taittinger champagne and, for me, the exorcism of my Portland memories began. The lounge was very homely, almost like a country house, with comfortable squashy sofas and armchairs, large windows and even a fireplace. We made ourselves very comfortable while the MD explained the history of the ship, the rationale behind the Company, and the mode of operation. The ship operated from Oban in Western Scotland, with weekly cruises starting and ending, usually, on Tuesdays. Although the area of operation was normally the Western Isles, some cruises also covered the Orkneys and Shetland. Every three years the ship cruised around the British south coast and islands: the Channel Islands, the Isles of Scilly and ports along the English Channel (hence her current port of Portland). After the presentation, our thirty-strong party was split into two for a tour of the ship, one party led by the Captain and the other by the Purser. There were twenty double or twin cabins, and eight singles, all of various sizes ranging from two large suites with balconies in the superstructure down to four small internal cabins on the lower deck. Whatever the size, all the cabins were beautifully appointed in a Scottish country hotel style and the housekeeping was immaculate. I noticed that each cabin included a decanter of Scotch whisky for the guests (all the drinks onboard are inclusive and guests are asked in advance for details of their favourite tipple so that supplies can be obtained). The ship’s bridge was a trip back in time for me, for it reminded me of the ships in which I had played when my father served in the Merchant Navy of the 1950s and 1960s: there was the brass ship’s binnacle with its Kelvin Balls and Flinders Bar; here was the ship’s wheel; there were the twin brass telegraphs for sending orders to the manned engine room. Apparently, when the ship is under way passengers are quite welcome to enter the bridge to chat to the Officer of the Watch and helmsman; the only time they are excluded is during manoeuvring. I sighed nostalgically and could have spent an hour in that wheelhouse, just rubbing my hands lovingly over the polished wood and gazing at the shining brightwork. Of course, there were modern additions such as the GPS, the Minerva fire alarm system and the VHF, but I still found that ship’s bridge to be reassuringly traditional. Alas, we had to move on and soon found ourselves in the Dining Saloon with its crisp white tablecloths, gleaming tableware and attentive stewards and stewardesses. White or red wine (or both) was offered to accompany three courses, with a choice of two dishes for the main course. I ordered pork belly, which was delicious and very professionally presented and served; Jane ordered fillet of plaice. The wine was well-chosen. Jane tried both the red and the white and seemed to enjoy them immensely, but I was driving so only had half a glass of the red. We chose to sit at a large round table with about eight other guests and the atmosphere was very convivial (well, the wine and earlier champagne helped). We all agreed that we would sign up tomorrow as soon as we found a particular cruise that would suit us. We parted the ship as good friends, Jane burbling like a three badge parrot as she descended the gangway, and me looking back longingly – determined to book a cruise so that I could return. Reality kicked in when we arrived back home and perused the brochure. The cheapest seven-day cruise in the cheapest (internal) double cabin would cost us £3,870 each; the most expensive nine-day cruise in the most expensive double cabin (a suite) would cost us £22,060 each. That did not include the internal transit costs of getting to and from Oban in Western Scotland, but I suppose if you can afford £44,120 for a nine-day cruise then a return train or air fare to Scotland will be little potatoes. Oh dear: my silver coach had just turned into a pumpkin. Oh, but that ship was so beautiful. Ho hum: one day.
Well, the rats (Blog 143) have gone on holiday. Or possibly to heaven. We returned from an excellent two-day break with our friends in Altrincham to find one dead creature in one of our traps (presumably starved to death), but there have been no sitings since and very little of the official rat catcher’s poison has been taken. Paradoxically, Jane is annoyed by the absence of corpses (bit of a bloodthirsty spouse I have there). She takes the view that we paid out £150 to the council rat catcher but none of his traps have activated and little of his poison has gone; I take the view that, whatever, there are no rats, ergo our goal has been achieved. Anyway, the rat catcher will make one final visit soon and take away his gear, whereupon another exciting chapter in our day-to-day lives will be over.
Alors. We are off to France tomorrow morning for a four-day culture visit with our local Arts Society. A bus – I beg your pardon – a luxury coach – will collect us from Melbury town centre at the ungodly time of 0700 and we will pass through Le Tunnel to arrive at 1900 tomorrow evening. Visits to gardens, museums, Fountainebleau and Paris are in the itinerary and we hope to get into Notre Dame Cathedral on Sunday, returning to Blighty on Monday night. Jane is very keen; I just wonder if trying to educate me in the arts will be like casting pearls before swine, but I do look forward to practising the language again and immersing myself in French culture and cuisine. Besides, if Jane is content it makes for a happy ship. Wish us bon chance.
Summer is over. It is official. At long last we have soft refreshing rain, the lawn is greening up nicely, cracks in the ground are closing up and Jane wore tights yesterday for the first time in six months. It won’t be long before her cardigan makes its appearance and our central heating cuts in. We cannot complain for we have enjoyed an excellent summer; time to move on and get back to a normal England. Only 106 days to Christmas!
Au revoir. Je reviendrai dans un mois, j’espère.
10 September 2025
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 