We all move on, but always leave a little of ourselves behind.
Felixstowe Radio can survive without me - and so I'm moving to Media Fish:
www.mediafish.org.uk. There I'm to be joined by a bevy of beauties: three talented ladies Andrea, Jan and Frances.
Collectively we have considerable talent, which we plan to use to create a network of radio stations. Early days but
www.eastcoastradio.co.uk will be a testbed (once it starts).
Life will be fun. After all life is to be lived.
Emergency Planning
We are lucky in the British Isles; so far. We have not been struck by major disasters, natural or man-made. The lessons of the Irish bombings were absorbed, and so the emergency services reacted well to the recent spate of terror strikes in London. Our nuclear power stations remain stable, bird flu has not yet struck us all down, nor has another group managed to pollute our water supplies, or release noxious substances into the air.
We also have an experienced team of emergency planners, who continuously try to anticipate problems, and plan solutions.
In New Orleans the American Dream has collapsed.
The stark truth of a capitalist system based solely upon individual gain has been realised.
The rich are nowhere to be seen. They all escaped, and have gone to stay with relatives or friends or to live in another of their homes.
The poor, and in America that seems to equate with being black, are left behind. The insular nature of the American psyche is revealed. The National Guard are in place, not to help but to prevent looting. That seems illogical. Let these poor people loot whatever they want. Most of it will be worthless; damaged by water. What remains may help to sustain these wretched people.
Imagine being in that situation, with young children. You would seek food, water, shelter. The basic necessities of life would become extremely important, vital to your very existence.
America's emergency planning seems non-existent, or at best poorly planned. The rest of the world – and that means you – will now have to pay for at least one stupid planning blunder. America has stocks of crude oil, but no stock of refined oil products. There's no petrol (gasoline) in store, so America has rushed over to Europe, and is buying our reserves. In turn our prices will be forced up. American citizens will continue to pay low prices for petrol, and we will be forced to pay far more.
Those southern states need help. They need the thousands of troops presently creating tension in Iraq to come back home. These soldiers should be there, their trucks filled with provisions, clothing, tents. With a group of soldiers on every corner, intent on helping and assisting their fellow citizens there would be no need for looting, and the armed gangs now taking over parts of New Orleans would be effectively silenced.
America tries to live like a Hollywood movie. It's time it grew up, realised it has real problems in its homeland, and stopped trying to police – and that means exploit – the rest of the world.
We know how to look after our own.
America clearly does not.
It's no good crying, when looks over, it may well be - we shall see.
That said I'll get my own back - one day. I've not finished with Jason Wright yet.
www.author.co.uk has been stolen from me.
Find me playing theatres - at www.spapavilion.co.uk or read the blog at Spa Tek Blog
Good luck.
I'm off, retired, thrown on the scrap-heap.
Keep scribbling
Learning by Mistakes
After the last great war Great Britain was forced to hand back its empire. It's too easy to label groups. To be British is not the same as being English. To have the power to decide to hand back an empire was not given to many English people, just to a few misguided political leaders. The English peasant is one of the most controlled people in the world. For centuries we have done just what our masters told us to do.
That situation has not improved lately. One million British peasants marched through the streets of London, not wanting our country to invade Iraq. Our measly-minded ministers decided to go against the will of the people, largely without providing a logical explanation.
After Empire decayed we had Commonwealth. Following the war, when honest decent British men, women and children had been killed, the country was short of people. Partly in appeasement, mainly through economic greed, our masters decided to give some Commonwealth citizens the right to British citizenship. I'm British became the cry from around the world.
Today we have a multi-racial society. No real problem with that except when we find that third generation immigrants still cannot speak English, and have little or no involvement with the indigenous population. Now one London Borough can boast that 166 different languages are spoken. Sadly not all of those people have yet acquired any pride in being British.
When asked where allegiances lie, they are rarely to be found tied to these isles. The old country, wherever that may be, still holds hearts. And now 12% of UK pensions are paid to people living abroad, as those immigrants return to their home lands to die.
All this is a high price to pay for a few extra poorly-paid immigrant workers. Now the sons of those immigrants, brought up in this country, educated, housed, fed and watered in the British way are prepared to kill themselves, and many others, for a cause.
What is that cause? Hatred of our way of life is supposedly the cause for which they are prepared to murder.
If life is so dreadful here, why do they stay? Why not go to another place where they can live the life they want to lead? By what divine right do they gain support for their determination to influence our way of life? They came to our country of their own free will and by and large the citizenry has accepted this influx with good grace. The poor English person attempting to settle in many of the home lands of these immigrants finds it much more difficult to be accepted.
Who is to blame?
Bigotry is corrosive and can only be beaten by smothering those affected by love and compassion.
Salsa and Samba
Last night I went dancing: the tango and the salsa at the Waikiki in Ipswich. Marvellous bunch of people, we had great fun, even though I'm still not sure I have mastered the basic footsteps. When someone suggests it is left forward, right forward, left back, right back, tap then... Ok, let's just say I get confused.
Tonight it's samba! The Samba Band - you can see a video of them in action at Felixstowe TV. Should be plenty of fun and action. The local Ipswich band is playing, accompanied by a band from Norwich, perhaps 100 drummers on stage at the Regent, Ipswich. (Aren't they planning to close that place? If so they could all come to the Spa Pavilion).
author.co.uk
My world has just collapsed. I've held the domian licence for www.author.co.uk since 1997, renewing it successfully in 1999, 2001, 2003 but now in 2005 an administrative error (not mine) has meant that Jason Wright, of 53 Thetford Close, Arnold, Nottingham, Nottinghamshire NG5 6PH England, telephone number +44 (0)115 9204638 has gained possession.
He did so using a watchlist provided at http://www.sedo.co.uk/services/s_domainwatch.php3?language=e&partnerid=14236&tracked=1
Having spent eight years of my life building and working 16 hours a day on this site it is frustrating, to say the least, to have it taken away for no good reason.
It’s more than Larkin’ about
Twice in one week sweet peas arrive
Clutched in smiling hands, precious gifts
Two wondrous women, one supports God
The other requiring scientific explanation
Bring flowers to my door
An old fool dismisses such trinkets while
His soul smiles as the bounteous perfume
Wafting at dreams that cannot be realised
So the restless spirit moves on
Is that too much to give?
We travel through time towards decay
Days slip by without notice
As new life replaces old
Fresh energy springing from the womb
Does yesterday need to live?
Indubitably for it provides energy
For all our tomorrows
And, as the scientist will say
Energy never dies
What will god say to that?
copyright 2005 Trevor Lockwood
Shall I?
Shall I live alone when I grow old
Sat in an armchair as I scowl in the cold
At a world changed beyond recognition
And yearn for days when I was bright and alert
And the pain in my heart did not hurt?
I’ll panic and moan as I sit on the throne
Picking at scabs of the cuts wishing I’d had the guts
To let the world love and not drone
On about the times I have known
That seem to have flown
Or will a new world bring purpose and zest
Not knowing what to choose for the best
As old bones rush through on a crest
Full of magical games to play?
I’ll have some of that if I may
There’ll be time for cooked breakfast every day
Not having to care what I weigh
Plenty of time to waste
Thinking of jobs not to my taste
No worry about being replaced
Reading books that will teach me to play
New games that lead grandchildren astray
We shall skip to the beach
Just as mum starts to preach
We’ll laugh as we scamper away
Time for childhood again
Perhaps I’ll jump on a plane
To lands faraway on a dream
There I’ll listen to voices
That tell me of choices
Copyright 2005 Trevor Lockwood
Hemlock by Joyce Dore, ISBN 1898030871 (obtainable from all good bookshops) looks at the life of Boudica (Boudicca, Boadicea) Queen of the Iceni, an East Anglian tribe in England at the time of the Roman occupation. Popular myth suggests that she was given to the Druids, to be executed. This book suggests otherwise.
Chapter 4
Slowly, as the encounter proceeded, Victoria felt uninhibited as she was enfolded in an embrace by the spectre and became part of this demented entity. She was being invited to experience something it was trying to convey to her. The anticipation of the unknown, coursed through her veins like molten lead. A chance like this came only once in a lifetime, if then, and this opportunity was not to be wasted on nervous dithering. Resolve bit like a hunting terrier with its teeth sunk deep into a rat. It would not let go until it had been appeased.
Suddenly she was no longer on a deserted road in the middle of the Fens. Instead Victoria found herself in a clearing in the middle of a dark wood. Only the stars gave light to many people who were gathered.
Looking about, she wondered why no campfires had been lit. Then Victoria picked up on the fear permeating the atmosphere. She realised that these people were desperate fugitives, hiding from something or someone.
The flicker of flames would have beckoned anyone searching for them, and the telltale sweet smell of the wood smoke drifting on the night air would surely have led anyone to the fire from whence it came. No smoke without fire was certainly a true axiom.
People lay slumped and weary in twos and threes, their heads resting anywhere there was something to act as a cushion. Some had their heads on the laps of a comrade, others on a mossy knoll. Their exhaustion was complete. The dell was as silent as the grave. No word was uttered, and no sound broke the stillness of the night. Heavy earth scents mingled with the sweat of terror, hung motionless in the gloom.
Victoria became aware of a woman propped up against the bole of a vast, gnarled oak. She was trying to comfort a slim, fair-haired, young girl who was trembling in her arms.
Abruptly the quiet of the forest was shattered! Everyone leapt to their feet, swords in hand. The fugitives were ambushed and out numbered by dozens of screaming soldiers.
The fearsome warriors appeared to be dressed in dark kilts and held bronze shields that echoed with the sound of a death sentence as they rattled their spears and swords against them. The wearied party had come to their feet painfully and attempted to fight back bravely, but their fatigue let them down and they were easily quelled.
Some of the uniformed soldiers ignited rush lights, giving the scene an unearthly ambience. Distorted, inky black shadows of the fighters danced and bounced from the gigantic tree trunks like mad cavorting demons. Screams of anguish echoed and reverberated from the massive oaks as the wounded and dying were brutally slaughtered.
Never had Victoria seen and heard of such a conflict between even the most hated of enemies. As it was splashed over the clearing like a charnel house, the smell of blood made her feel sick. She felt as if her bones would melt. She was certain that this battle had taken place centuries before and all that she was seeing was a replay especially for her benefit, displayed by the ghost who was her mentor.
Victoria realised that the woman who had met her, was in fact her guide and now she had taken her place in the tableau. She glanced up hastily to where two men stood apart from the fray. One was a Roman general. The other was dressed in the Roman fashion of white toga and cloak, his face partially hidden in the darkness. In the gloom the woman had managed to discern the features of a face that she had once adored. It was Julius, Julius Classicus!
Now Victoria realised that her guide and mentor was sharing her thoughts, her feelings and her life when she had been alive at this time. She felt the woman’s heart sink, knowing now that it was Julius, her lover, who had betrayed them to the enemy. She tried to scream, “Traitor!” but a swift blow to the back of her head from the hilt of a soldier’s sword, sent her to her knees making her dizzy and see flashing lights. Still she struggled to her feet from the mossy ground, and flew at the opponent who had attacked her.
Then the girl, whom the woman had been nursing, was now defending her back, but the child too was brutally punched to the ground by a man whose fists were covered with gore. His snarling face was a mask of bestiality as he drooled at the prospect of destroying such a beautiful young girl, and his intentions became obvious when he raised his kilt. He threw the child to the ground and fell upon her.
Gradually the clamour of the conflict was stilled. Dragged by her hair, the woman was brought to where the Governor General of the Roman army, Suetonius Paulinus stood alone. His treacherous companion had slunk quietly off into the dense woods, taking the path that ran beside the waterfall and stream.
Suetonius had travelled by forced march for days, not sparing man or beast. Word had reached him in the western regions of Anglesey in Mona, of an enlightened school of learning. Nero had commanded him to destroy all evidence of it considering it a hot bed of insurrection, teaching young people to think and ask questions. The commanders sent to repel the Iceni uprising had refused. They were mortally afraid of her and her rag-tag army of common serfs and their families.
Suetonius had found very little to compensate for the long trek across the hills and dales of Britain when he had stormed the great stone buildings, sacred to the Druids as their halls of law and wisdom.
Most of the inhabitants had escaped by sea in the tiny coracles to a large green island. All their knowledge was stored in their heads. They were known never to write anything down. Everything had to be learned and remembered in the twenty years of an acolyte’s tuition. To make certain that their minds did not wander away from their lessons, the young people were not allowed to journey home in all of that time.
Suetonius decapitated every Druid who could be caught, be they young acolytes or old tutors. Their heads were pierced by long wooden pikes and placed for all to see, around the wrecked walls of the gracious buildings.
Those who had escaped by paddling their hide and wattle coracles as fast as they could on the out going tide, were washed up against the shores of their new island home, their fortunes and future, unknown.
Suetonius, insane with anger at the deceit of the falsehood, glared at the two women, his bloodshot eyes rimmed with the grit and mud of sleepless nights. “My orders are to take you alive if possible. If not, I am to take your head as evidence of your death and those of your daughters to my lord Nero.” Then he looked at the rest of his captives. “Finish the men off,” he barked. “The women you can use, but be quick about it, and I want these two out of the area before dawn. And take careful note of this.” Suetonius had lowered his voice and those men who had served with him for some years, knew that he was ramming home a message that they dare not forget. “ I want these two women guarded with your lives. If they escape, then those responsible will be crucified, gutted and then used for target practice. Do you understand?” He waited while they absorbed this order, and then continued, “Any Druid or their supporter found anywhere near them, are to have their tongues cut out and their heads mounted on a pole like those at their precious house of learning. Then he nodded his head, indicating he had finished giving his commands.
Still dazed from the blow that she had received from the sword hilt, the woman staggered to her feet. “How brave the Roman General is with women and children,” she mocked him.
“Any other woman and child, yes, but not with you my Lady Queen Boudica. All Rome knows what murderous havoc you have caused in Britain, and Nero has been asked questions in the Senate as to what he intends to do with you when captured,” Suetonius replied. Spittle from his cruel mouth sprayed everyone who was within an arm’s reach.
“Nero plans to display you in the arena as the main attraction,” he taunted, an ugly grimace displaying his rotten uneven teeth, and then looked about, his eyes searching the shadows. “I was told that you had two daughters. Where is the other?”
The furious sparks of pure hatred in her eyes should have warned Suetonius of the danger that he was in. Boudica was onto him with her teeth bared and the claws on her hands, aimed at his throat. “Your brave men took turns raping them when my oldest daughter, Cavatina, and her young sister, Ceridwen, were playing in a stream. Those men stole my children’s gold torques as they assaulted them, so they knew that they were violating princesses.” She was shaking him by his shoulders as if he were a weak aspen leaf fluttering in the wind, Suetonius was held helpless by Boudica’s iron grip, unable to free himself from her maternal rage that held all watching, in deep thrall.
Boudica’s face was distorted. Her teeth exposed like a wild animal and her eyes flattened into slits of sheer loathing, as a savage howl of rage escaped her. “Ceridwen brought her older sister, Cavatina, home demented. I sent Cavatina to be healed by some friendly priests. She is still with them. Go and find her if you still have the courage!” she screamed at him.
Here's a short extract from George Forsdike's biography Cats & Chrysanthemums
It was a raw, damp, overcast day, drizzling with rain, early in November 1950 when we had moved back to Suffolk. Clare had not seen the place that I was bringing her to and on this dull wet miserable day, trees dripping with rain, it didn’t look a very inviting place, after leaving where we had been living in comparative luxury. After our belongings had been unloaded into the house, our neighbour introduced herself and made us tea. The neighbour assured Clare, that when the sun shone she would have a much better impression of the surroundings. After a couple of weeks we had settled down and life had become enjoyable on this large country estate, as Clare knew that I had obtained a job that I liked where I had been engaged as a second gardener to look after the glasshouse department.
Shrubland Park Estate, home of the de Saumerez family, extended over several hundred acres. It included an area of 40 acres of ornamental gardens. A 4 ½ acre walled garden with a further 2 ½ acres surrounding the wall, was being used as a market garden to contribute to the running costs of the Estate, which had risen sharply since the end of the Second World War. Many of the features of the ornamental gardens, which once employed 40 men, had been reduced to a more manageable level and now employed just 4 men. The market garden was a separate unit from the ornamental gardens and was staffed by 4 men including the head gardener, who had overall control of both units; there was also occasional seasonal help.
Moving into the house in Shrubland was not quite what we had become used to. It was a cottage joined to the water tower, which supplied the estate with its own water supply. Being set amongst trees, when seen from a distance, it gave the appearance of a church. When the water level in the tank dropped we would be subjected to the drone of the pump as it refilled the tank, something that we eventually got used to.
We had a small kitchen with a copper in one corner but no electric cooker, instead, there was the usual, old-fashioned Suffolk cooking range, a good- sized living room and an upstairs bathroom but it had only cold water. There were two bedrooms. The Lady of the estate came to welcome Clare one afternoon and remarked that we were lucky to have a bathroom as most of the houses on the estate did not have one. Clare retorted that she had been used to hot and cold water in the bathroom for many years. Here we had to heat the water in the copper and carry it in buckets, upstairs to the bathroom. How primitive was that? The toilet was a chemical arrangement, an Elsan, and it was located in a brick cavity under the water tower beside the back door. This was rather a comedown for us as we had started our married life in comparative luxury. It was however, better than some of the other jobs I had looked at. Employees were not expected to enjoy the same facilities as their employers.
Clare put up with all the inconvenience because she knew that I had acquired a job that I liked and it was a good place for her once again to have a cat. Living inside the Park with no public road running past there was no fear of it being run over on a busy highway.
Always a cat somewhere needs a good home. As soon as the family knew that Clare wanted one, it was not long before someone came up with the answer. This small young grey female was brought over one weekend for Clare’s approval; it was the last one of a litter and had been given the name of Timmy. How could she resist this friendly little creature? Of course, she couldn’t. Timmy settled in with us very quickly as she was smothered with affection.
In those days tradesmen used to bring their wares around to the houses; the baker called three times a week, the butcher called twice a week, milk came from the farm and groceries were delivered from the local grocer once a week. Our means of transport were bicycles although journeys into town were by bus.
Three months into my new job, I was to be required to drive the market garden van occasionally. I could not drive at the time and so the chauffeur was ordered to teach me. Fred Puncher did not have a lot of chauffeuring to do so he had plenty of time on his hands. One of his other duties was looking after a flock of hens who provided a supply of eggs to the mansion. Fred was easy to get on with and an excellent driving instructor. We would go out as often as we could, mostly in my own time, and use either the market garden van, the Ford 8 estate run around car or even Fred’s own car, which was a Singer 10. I wasn’t allowed in Her Ladyship’s Jaguar.
After a few weeks, Fred thought that I was ready for my driving test. This was arranged and on the appointed day, we went to the test centre in Ipswich in the Ford 8. After driving around the town doing all the manoeuvres that were required, we arrived back at the test centre and I was presented with a piece of paper stating that I had passed my test. Everyone was delighted, including me, when we returned to Shrubland without my L-plates. Of course, driving tests in those days were not quite as rigorous as they are now.
