OK – I think I have finally worked out why I really hate things these days, it’s actually quite simple, everything has become ‘tat’.
Take a look around, once we had lives that we lived because it was a quite happy thing to do. Now we simply exist to feed an insidious treadmill of financial institutions, the legal industry, and power and control hungry governments of all levels and their inquisition ‘The Taxation Department’ .
As youth we went into shops and spoke to the people working there because we probably either knew them, or it was simply the polite thing to do. Now shops have gone and been replaced with mega this and mega that, churning out endless inventory supported by over loud and over coloured advertising geared to dull your brain and rot your senses until you comply. They weren’t open 24 hours a day 7 days a week, why, because there was no reason for it.
Now, so that we can all own all the pretty trash that’s on offer, both parents work and the family tries to get by on reduced caring and, again, overpriced, underloving child care centres.
As a youth in my village/town I could look down any street and see nothing but the shop fronts and perhaps a zebra crossing. Now the eye is gouged by countless signs, don’t do this, don’t do that. Cross here, don’t cross here, double yellow lines, double red lines, slow down, speed up, it’s an offence to …., don’t loiter, please don’t die here there is a bin supplied round the back, on and on and on.
Once we got a wage in cash which could be stuffed into your pocket. Then we got cheques which we could either bank or get cashed and the company’s bank. Now it has to be paid into a bank account and that’s where the rot sets in. First you are forced to open a bank account, which means you are going to lose a lot of your hard earned money in bank fees, dozens of fees that serve no purpose except to steal your money and make it theirs.
Reserve Banks that only the gods understand keep forcing up interest rates, hundreds of thousands are losing their homes because the repayments keep going up and up – the politician will express regret on camera and then go and have a few whiskies in the pollies bar before hopping into their Rolls Royce and returning to their 3 million dollar home … understand one important thing ‘Nobody Cares’.
Company CEOs run trillion dollar companies into the ground, ruin thousands of small investors and get paid off with 25/30 million dollars to go away. ‘Nobody Cares’.
We have to fill out forms to do anything, a constant stream appear in your letterbox, god knows who thought them up but when you study them they are all geared for one simple purpose ‘To Have you like an open book in big brother’s computers. They have you by the short and curlies and there is no escape … apart from death and even then somebody has to fill out forms for you to prove you have curled up your toes.
Justice is served only to the wealthy, whether they deserve it or not - no money and you don’t stand a chance. And, as for getting sick, forget it, if you don’t have insurance you will never get the proper treatment; you either get better or die … ‘Nobody Cares’.
What it comes down to is that we are no longer a person or individual people, we are now nothing more that tags and numbers in countless computers that sit there ticking over waiting for us to either do something wrong or depart the mortal coil – and guess what? – Nobody Cares’.
I guess this is why, in my recent writing, I like to wander back to a long forgotten time. I don’t like it here, I want to be there, with all its faults, you see – ‘People Cared’.
A very tired
Harry Drake
23 April 2008
14 April 2008
TIME GENTLEMEN PLEASE
I have recently been tasked regarding the vow I made never to return to my home village. With my present fuzzy brain I’m not sure if it came from a friend or via an email from a reader of the book.
This far into the future it’s tricky to explain the emotion of those long ago days, plus it wasn’t so much a single event that led to the vow, rather it was a series of them, like some bitter layer cake, one rancid slice on top of another, on top of another … Also, I believe I was almost as much disillusioned with the whole country as with my little corner of it.
Let’s go back - I was (I think) 18 years old and had been serving in the Navy for over a year and as I was between ships, thought I would pay a visit to the old stamping ground. My parents were dead, the old house had gone and brothers and sister had scattered; they didn’t like me very much, so letters, cards and phone calls just never happened.
Midshipmen aren’t exactly overpaid (2 pound 10 shillings a week – of which you had to save 10 shilling) so I took the train down to Oxted (2nd class) where Dickie Warner would pick me up in his derelict banger of a car.
It was a cold, damp December afternoon when I disembarked onto the platform, strange, this was the same platform from which, under the magical sunshine of youth, I had spent untold hours as a train spotter and by the time I was 11, was sometimes allowed to drive the old ‘2 – 4 – 2’ steamer between Oxted and Hurst Green Halt.
Now the engine was a diesel, no hissing steam, no smell of coal dust and oil, no old man ‘Steptoe’ leaning out of the cab with a coal dust sprinkled cheese sandwich in his hand and blackened face split by that huge grin of his. Now there was just a quiet click of closing doors, a quarter second toot of the electric horn and the train slid away … Where was the fanfare, where was the excitement, where was the panache… ?
Dickie was still the same, a ready humour hiding behind a quiet disposition. He had joined his father in their little handyman service company ‘Warner & Warner’ Plumbers, Carpenters, Electricians, Gardeners. The fact that they had not even one qualification between them didn’t seem to disturb them, or their many customers, in the slightest … but they were on borrowed time.
The thing that I really remember about that day was the silence between us, few words were spoken it was enough that the old twosome were back together again.
Dickie first drove me to where the old house had stood. God it was awful. The socialist driven council had grabbed the land and turned it into one of those drab, grey, soulless council housing estates – cheap rentals for people that deserved them (yes I am being a snob). Where the orchard had stood and where I had found Rodney the Fox, was a sort of cemented square with blocks of housing units around it, one and two bedroom boxes that would form the slums of tomorrow. The residents of these boxes would never know that on the spot where they now existed (I won’t say lived as that implies more than they were), once a succession of grand houses had stood. From these houses, great plans had been hatched, armies had gathered to journey to far off battles from Darkest Africa and the Far East to the Americas - and The Families had presided over the land and brought order to chaos.
There was a glaringly lit cement block of a corner store occupying one corner of the square and although only a few years old the windows had already been sufficiently neglected to become less than clean with grime showing in every corner, still the grime matched the faces of those people hanging around, seemingly without purpose, eyes without interest, hiding personas with no will to learn, no dreams to stir them on to larger things … I was pleased to get back into the car, I didn’t belong here.
We drove back to Oxted; the heavy grey sky was now sprinkling the land with a few large snowflakes but as yet, not sufficient to put a covering over the brittle grass and frozen soil. I was interested to see how the memorial park was faring now that my family had gone. This small park was attached to the village green and although not large, had, a hundred and ninety years earlier, been well designed to give shade in summer and some rain protection in winter. A small path wound its way between a combination of trees and shrubs, interspersed by small areas of flowers, allowed to grow wild. In the centre were a small pond and a memorial to all these ‘Of The Village’, that had fallen in, mostly long forgotten, wars. This land had been a gift, from my family, to the village and they had paid to have it developed and for the memorial, it was a ‘grand’ little place that oozed a sense of peace and tranquility.
When we got there I understood why Dickie had been so quiet, the park was gone and in its place was a revolting ugly, new Council Offices block. To make matters worse this disgrace to the eye even had a sign naming it after the present Mayor, a seedy, skinny, spivvy type who made his money in selling kitchen appliances, such as they were back then, this income he supplemented by being a collector for the Prudential Insurance Company. He often had a cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth and the skills required to properly wear a tie seemed quite beyond him.
A small plaque had shown that the park was named after the family that had donated and built it, that plaque had gone but Dickie showed me where it was, sitting on a pile of rubble ready to be hauled off to the tip.
In the evening (although it’s pitch dark by 4.00pm) we drove to the ‘Old Bell’ pub for dinner. Even here the day didn’t see any joy. A local man spotted me and started making comments (loud enough for me to hear) about how good it was that the old ‘poncy’ families had all gone “And good riddance too”. Finally I had, had enough and getting up politely asked him to take back what he said and apologize. This, he refused to do, having obtained courage from a few beers and a couple of mates at his back: so, I just had to break his nose, there was really no alternative. I think the thing that really irked me was that there were quite a few of the older villagers about and none could meet my eye. I think it was in that second of time that I realised that all that had been … was now gone.
We left that pub and drove to another ‘The Diamond’ here the old landlord greeted us with open arms and the more ‘farm type folk’ gave a friendly nod and a wink. At ten minutes to ten of the clock the call ‘Time Gentle Please’ rang out, announcing that it was time to close up for the night.
Next morning, after a huge breakfast cooked by Dickie’s mother, we drove up to our old look-out place high on the side of the downs. I hate to think how many hours as kids we had wasted sitting up here looking out over the countryside. From here you could see a world just big enough for children, Darkmere Wood, with its haunted centre. Stafford’s Wood which still hid away our old railway station and from where, on that special day ,I had come with Carole and the others, to this spot, before our last night of that last wonderful summer holiday. The Chalk Quarry itself where we had tunneled to the centre of the world and fought monsters that only lived at the world’s core. Oaks Corner where we had gather bonfire wood for the 5th of November celebrations. Gallows Crossroads, so haunted that we never (except once) went after dark, what a night that was.
Overnight, snow had softened all the ridges and contours, I wished it could have been a summer’s day for my departure, but there again, perhaps, the chill was more fitting, for me sunshine had gone from this place.
In my mind I could hear the words from the previous night ‘Time gentlemen please’. Yes, it was time to shut up shop, there was nothing left to buy in this place.
Dickie drove me to the station but didn’t wait to see me off, I think we both knew that this was our last parting and stretching it out was pointless. However, there was one last surprise. Sitting on the bench outside of the waiting room was an old man that I recognised. It was Mr Cooper the old, now retired, Station Master. Sitting down I said Hello and turning to me he said. “Well master Frank, I guess you be a goin’ now and that’s probably a good thing, nowt left around here for the likes of us”. As the train slithered into platform and squeaked to halt I shook his hand and boarded. The ingratitude and sheer bloody meanness of the place had overwhelmed me and I resolved never to come back … and I never did.
Three days later Dickie phoned me to say that Mr. Cooper had died, it was almost as if he had been waiting to say goodbye to someone from … back when.
I learned over the years that there would always be a voice waiting in the shadows of ‘time’ to again whisper that same dreadful announcement … ‘Time gentlemen please’.
This far into the future it’s tricky to explain the emotion of those long ago days, plus it wasn’t so much a single event that led to the vow, rather it was a series of them, like some bitter layer cake, one rancid slice on top of another, on top of another … Also, I believe I was almost as much disillusioned with the whole country as with my little corner of it.
Let’s go back - I was (I think) 18 years old and had been serving in the Navy for over a year and as I was between ships, thought I would pay a visit to the old stamping ground. My parents were dead, the old house had gone and brothers and sister had scattered; they didn’t like me very much, so letters, cards and phone calls just never happened.
Midshipmen aren’t exactly overpaid (2 pound 10 shillings a week – of which you had to save 10 shilling) so I took the train down to Oxted (2nd class) where Dickie Warner would pick me up in his derelict banger of a car.
It was a cold, damp December afternoon when I disembarked onto the platform, strange, this was the same platform from which, under the magical sunshine of youth, I had spent untold hours as a train spotter and by the time I was 11, was sometimes allowed to drive the old ‘2 – 4 – 2’ steamer between Oxted and Hurst Green Halt.
Now the engine was a diesel, no hissing steam, no smell of coal dust and oil, no old man ‘Steptoe’ leaning out of the cab with a coal dust sprinkled cheese sandwich in his hand and blackened face split by that huge grin of his. Now there was just a quiet click of closing doors, a quarter second toot of the electric horn and the train slid away … Where was the fanfare, where was the excitement, where was the panache… ?
Dickie was still the same, a ready humour hiding behind a quiet disposition. He had joined his father in their little handyman service company ‘Warner & Warner’ Plumbers, Carpenters, Electricians, Gardeners. The fact that they had not even one qualification between them didn’t seem to disturb them, or their many customers, in the slightest … but they were on borrowed time.
The thing that I really remember about that day was the silence between us, few words were spoken it was enough that the old twosome were back together again.
Dickie first drove me to where the old house had stood. God it was awful. The socialist driven council had grabbed the land and turned it into one of those drab, grey, soulless council housing estates – cheap rentals for people that deserved them (yes I am being a snob). Where the orchard had stood and where I had found Rodney the Fox, was a sort of cemented square with blocks of housing units around it, one and two bedroom boxes that would form the slums of tomorrow. The residents of these boxes would never know that on the spot where they now existed (I won’t say lived as that implies more than they were), once a succession of grand houses had stood. From these houses, great plans had been hatched, armies had gathered to journey to far off battles from Darkest Africa and the Far East to the Americas - and The Families had presided over the land and brought order to chaos.
There was a glaringly lit cement block of a corner store occupying one corner of the square and although only a few years old the windows had already been sufficiently neglected to become less than clean with grime showing in every corner, still the grime matched the faces of those people hanging around, seemingly without purpose, eyes without interest, hiding personas with no will to learn, no dreams to stir them on to larger things … I was pleased to get back into the car, I didn’t belong here.
We drove back to Oxted; the heavy grey sky was now sprinkling the land with a few large snowflakes but as yet, not sufficient to put a covering over the brittle grass and frozen soil. I was interested to see how the memorial park was faring now that my family had gone. This small park was attached to the village green and although not large, had, a hundred and ninety years earlier, been well designed to give shade in summer and some rain protection in winter. A small path wound its way between a combination of trees and shrubs, interspersed by small areas of flowers, allowed to grow wild. In the centre were a small pond and a memorial to all these ‘Of The Village’, that had fallen in, mostly long forgotten, wars. This land had been a gift, from my family, to the village and they had paid to have it developed and for the memorial, it was a ‘grand’ little place that oozed a sense of peace and tranquility.
When we got there I understood why Dickie had been so quiet, the park was gone and in its place was a revolting ugly, new Council Offices block. To make matters worse this disgrace to the eye even had a sign naming it after the present Mayor, a seedy, skinny, spivvy type who made his money in selling kitchen appliances, such as they were back then, this income he supplemented by being a collector for the Prudential Insurance Company. He often had a cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth and the skills required to properly wear a tie seemed quite beyond him.
A small plaque had shown that the park was named after the family that had donated and built it, that plaque had gone but Dickie showed me where it was, sitting on a pile of rubble ready to be hauled off to the tip.
In the evening (although it’s pitch dark by 4.00pm) we drove to the ‘Old Bell’ pub for dinner. Even here the day didn’t see any joy. A local man spotted me and started making comments (loud enough for me to hear) about how good it was that the old ‘poncy’ families had all gone “And good riddance too”. Finally I had, had enough and getting up politely asked him to take back what he said and apologize. This, he refused to do, having obtained courage from a few beers and a couple of mates at his back: so, I just had to break his nose, there was really no alternative. I think the thing that really irked me was that there were quite a few of the older villagers about and none could meet my eye. I think it was in that second of time that I realised that all that had been … was now gone.
We left that pub and drove to another ‘The Diamond’ here the old landlord greeted us with open arms and the more ‘farm type folk’ gave a friendly nod and a wink. At ten minutes to ten of the clock the call ‘Time Gentle Please’ rang out, announcing that it was time to close up for the night.
Next morning, after a huge breakfast cooked by Dickie’s mother, we drove up to our old look-out place high on the side of the downs. I hate to think how many hours as kids we had wasted sitting up here looking out over the countryside. From here you could see a world just big enough for children, Darkmere Wood, with its haunted centre. Stafford’s Wood which still hid away our old railway station and from where, on that special day ,I had come with Carole and the others, to this spot, before our last night of that last wonderful summer holiday. The Chalk Quarry itself where we had tunneled to the centre of the world and fought monsters that only lived at the world’s core. Oaks Corner where we had gather bonfire wood for the 5th of November celebrations. Gallows Crossroads, so haunted that we never (except once) went after dark, what a night that was.
Overnight, snow had softened all the ridges and contours, I wished it could have been a summer’s day for my departure, but there again, perhaps, the chill was more fitting, for me sunshine had gone from this place.
In my mind I could hear the words from the previous night ‘Time gentlemen please’. Yes, it was time to shut up shop, there was nothing left to buy in this place.
Dickie drove me to the station but didn’t wait to see me off, I think we both knew that this was our last parting and stretching it out was pointless. However, there was one last surprise. Sitting on the bench outside of the waiting room was an old man that I recognised. It was Mr Cooper the old, now retired, Station Master. Sitting down I said Hello and turning to me he said. “Well master Frank, I guess you be a goin’ now and that’s probably a good thing, nowt left around here for the likes of us”. As the train slithered into platform and squeaked to halt I shook his hand and boarded. The ingratitude and sheer bloody meanness of the place had overwhelmed me and I resolved never to come back … and I never did.
Three days later Dickie phoned me to say that Mr. Cooper had died, it was almost as if he had been waiting to say goodbye to someone from … back when.
I learned over the years that there would always be a voice waiting in the shadows of ‘time’ to again whisper that same dreadful announcement … ‘Time gentlemen please’.
05 April 2008
The price of getting noticed
Well, a small sail/cruise ship has been attacked by modern pirates and the news lines are running hot – OK, so what about the other (ave) 400 ships that get attacked every year – Oh yes, that’s right, now I remember, these are only cargo ships manned by hard working but seldom over educated seaman, so nobody gives a dam.
For a start, what were the idiots doing there without some form of protection in the first place? This is one of the pirate hot spots; nobody in their right mind would sail into it, especially in such an enticing prize, without an escort or advanced training. Perhaps the answer to this will soon be made clear …
As with other conflicts, the good guys will lose the battle against piracy and the reason is very simple.
In Jim’s post he mentions: -
References 1. National Strategy on Maritime Security, Home Land Security, Sept 20, 2005 2. IAGS Energy Security: Maritime Terrorism, January 24, 2005 3. ICT International Institute for Counter-Terrorism, Al-Qaedas Maritime threat April 15, 2007
We don’t need any more talks/studies/think tanks/academic meddling/political correctness. What we do need is for all the above to be chucked into the garbage bin and somebody to stand up and say.
“This is wrong, these people are killers and are destroying lives, our life style and security – we will hunt them down and destroy them”. Then carry out the plan.
With modern equipment these people can be tracked, bases and organizations can be located, it is within our power to wipe them off the face of the earth – but we won’t be able to be squeamish about how it’s done and I wouldn’t expect any prisoners to be taken.
All actions must be swift brutal and have a definite conclusion, find, track, destroy, there is no other choice if you want this insidious trade terminated.
Naturally this isn’t going to happen because the ultra correct minority will block any such actions in the name of human rights, OK, let them get captured by pirates and see how much value the bad guys place on your ‘rights’. A further problem is that some governments, whilst, perhaps’ not actively supporting the pirate trade, turn a blind eye to situation, with perhaps, some religious and/or monetary considerations given.
Nobody was listening 35 years ago, nobody is listening now. Like most of today’s global conflicts they have been caused by the reluctance of the majority in elected government positions to have the guts to do what has to be done and unless some minor voices can get heard, this isn’t going to change.
I spent 25 years mixed up in preventing this and other forms of crime at sea – the joke is that, because of the weakness of global governments and the pandering of said governments to ‘political correctness’, I and my crew often had to step outside of the law to do it; this sure is one mixed up world. Let’s be clear on one vital point – although some piracy is simply carried out by gangs of thugs, these days the majority are attached to fanatical groups and monies from piracy goes into the funding of terrorist activities.
So, who is to blame – well, you are – every adult man and woman on this planet that reads this and other articles on the subject and doesn’t do anything, even if that is only lifting the phone or writing to your government representative, is guilty of negligence by omission. This is how this terrible industry has been allowed to flourish for so long, they know that Mr and Ms Citizen don’t give a dam and won’t make waves. So enjoy your self-centered little lives while you can, evil is out there and just waiting for the right moment; I know because I have seen it and nine of my friends that are no longer here to enjoy their lives, paid the ultimate price in trying to stop it.
For a start, what were the idiots doing there without some form of protection in the first place? This is one of the pirate hot spots; nobody in their right mind would sail into it, especially in such an enticing prize, without an escort or advanced training. Perhaps the answer to this will soon be made clear …
As with other conflicts, the good guys will lose the battle against piracy and the reason is very simple.
In Jim’s post he mentions: -
References 1. National Strategy on Maritime Security, Home Land Security, Sept 20, 2005 2. IAGS Energy Security: Maritime Terrorism, January 24, 2005 3. ICT International Institute for Counter-Terrorism, Al-Qaedas Maritime threat April 15, 2007
We don’t need any more talks/studies/think tanks/academic meddling/political correctness. What we do need is for all the above to be chucked into the garbage bin and somebody to stand up and say.
“This is wrong, these people are killers and are destroying lives, our life style and security – we will hunt them down and destroy them”. Then carry out the plan.
With modern equipment these people can be tracked, bases and organizations can be located, it is within our power to wipe them off the face of the earth – but we won’t be able to be squeamish about how it’s done and I wouldn’t expect any prisoners to be taken.
All actions must be swift brutal and have a definite conclusion, find, track, destroy, there is no other choice if you want this insidious trade terminated.
Naturally this isn’t going to happen because the ultra correct minority will block any such actions in the name of human rights, OK, let them get captured by pirates and see how much value the bad guys place on your ‘rights’. A further problem is that some governments, whilst, perhaps’ not actively supporting the pirate trade, turn a blind eye to situation, with perhaps, some religious and/or monetary considerations given.
Nobody was listening 35 years ago, nobody is listening now. Like most of today’s global conflicts they have been caused by the reluctance of the majority in elected government positions to have the guts to do what has to be done and unless some minor voices can get heard, this isn’t going to change.
I spent 25 years mixed up in preventing this and other forms of crime at sea – the joke is that, because of the weakness of global governments and the pandering of said governments to ‘political correctness’, I and my crew often had to step outside of the law to do it; this sure is one mixed up world. Let’s be clear on one vital point – although some piracy is simply carried out by gangs of thugs, these days the majority are attached to fanatical groups and monies from piracy goes into the funding of terrorist activities.
So, who is to blame – well, you are – every adult man and woman on this planet that reads this and other articles on the subject and doesn’t do anything, even if that is only lifting the phone or writing to your government representative, is guilty of negligence by omission. This is how this terrible industry has been allowed to flourish for so long, they know that Mr and Ms Citizen don’t give a dam and won’t make waves. So enjoy your self-centered little lives while you can, evil is out there and just waiting for the right moment; I know because I have seen it and nine of my friends that are no longer here to enjoy their lives, paid the ultimate price in trying to stop it.
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