Make mine a double, Nanny!

The Poor Little Greek Boy sums this up nicely Here.
I mean - how do they intend this to be enforced? Or will the evil socialists running the show get their way and bring the surveillance into our homes to make sure every piece of parental responsibility is controlled by the state. Polly must be delighted.

I'm not a parent, but I am looking forward to supplying my nephew(s) with ale, wine and spirits whenever they ask for them. In fact - I also intend to give them a Dunhill Junior smoker kit, matches to play with, fireworks, a chemistry set with really lurid chemicals, air guns, weedkiller and sugar (you either know or you don't), rubber bands, sharp objects to run with, dirt to eat, food that has fallen on the floor, insects and magnifying glasses, books rescued from the loft such as 'Super Simon Shoots Smiling Sambos', 'Tintin gasses the Gyspsies', 'Biggles machine-guns the Jerries', and 'Hornblower bashes the frogs'.
Why?
Because whatever you prohibit, the more people want. The more Nanny tries to re-educate us in the politically correct, the more we seek it later. I was forced to go to chapel at Stalag-Luft-school - and that would turn you away from religion.


Stopping kids from enjoying a glass of wine with their folks over Sunday lunch smacks of class warfare, because it is seen to be 'middle class' (Or responsible and independent - not slavishly doing what the Nanny state says).
Plus they will be round the back of the bike sheds guzzling white lightning anyway.

The prat who dreamed this up isn't fit to clear tables in a pub.

The Joy of Shirk

Been off the grid for a bit dear readers. This is for two reasons. Mostly I have been working like a Sherpa. Secondly the Catering wing and bathroom facilities of Chez-Chap are now being re-built to my exacting specifications, and this has eaten up a lot of run-time.
To keep myself sane have had the odd afternoon off playing with my pet Sopwith Camel and am slowly getting the hang of this 'staying up on rising currents of air' lark.

However, with my nose this close to the grind stone, I have had little time to reflect upon my environment - in the same way a fireman chooses not to reflect on the beauty of the conflagration before him - or a sea captain chooses not to dissolve into a brown study to contemplate the wonders of the deeps before him.

I have been considering the taxonomy of my female acquaintances. Mainly for amusement (and their good), but chiefly following a conversation with The Scot - whom I know to be a reader. (You know who you are my dear...how is Morocco?)
These dryadic delights exist in many forms and I believe they bear classification. The nature of which I have not had time to give more than sufficient consideration to bear out a few basic categories. I feel there may be telling amusement therein - so if / when I get around to it - watch this space.
But to my female readership - ask yourself this - how would you choose to stir paint? Your answer will give me a clue to the appropriate taxonomy.

It looks distubingly like the Proper map of the 'Good Old Days'

create your own visited country map
or check our Venice travel guide


One has to ask the following simple question about the bits I haven't been to yet:

1. Can they make a decent cup of tea?
2. Have they got proper money with the queen on it?
3. Do they play cricket?

If the answer is none of the above, then I'm sorry it is probably not worth going there.

In fact there are a few of them I have been to where they can not only fail to make a christian cup of tea, but they entertain whiggsh notions such as putting bridges on their money, and insisting that we all share it.
Savages.

Have sighted Pole star (post marked Hounslow)

I'm in T'North again. Fortunately at my favourite inn.

They have started checking the register, and 'taking the liberty' of pre-cooling a bottle of Brouilly and asking chef to keep back any game 'just in case' I should like the first refusal.

Fine fellows.

And unlike every other benighted establishment outside town these chaps know how to mix a decent bloody mary - even asked how much horseradish I would like in mine. Put in a tablespoon of sherry unbidden too.

Service like that is almost illegal. Certainly outside the better London luncheon clubs anyway.

What would Nelson say?

I have been pondering the 'plight' of the Iran 15.

I do have a couple of thoughts.

I understand the Lieutenant that when surrounded by superior gunnery, there is no shame in striking your colours to save your crew. This fellow indeed new the rules, and struck accordingly. My knowledge of current doctrine is pretty hazy, but unless the witless socialists have infected Naval doctrine, then we expect that - as we did in Soviet days - seized crew would be used as propaganda tools.
I therefore imagine they knew they would be used as such.
I do, though, want to pick up a few bits.

Compare the following:
A battered John Nichol - who had banged out of his kite when they shot his tail off with anti aircraft guns as he flew at 20 feet bombing an enemy runway - blinking out SOS on Iraqi telly….
To…….
The milksops who blubbed that nasty guard had taken his iPod, and dear Queen of Hearts Failing Seaman Faye who was prepared to 'Do Anything' to get home in time to see her daughter.

I nearly choked on my Earl Grey when I read that.

Surely that undermines having women in the front line doesn't it? Say anything to the Enemy to get home in time?

Correct me if I am wrong, but the traditions of the Service is that the RN consider themselves superior as everyone, everyone goes to the 'front line'. You all go to sea.
I have always held the Senior Service in the highest regard, but these two pointless knicker wetters have lost my sympathy.

I pay my tax so you guys go out there, shoot people, get shot at, dodge torpedoes and the like. You join the navy to go in harms way.

In the course of your duty you should also expect that your government would look after you, and if you are illegally seized then you won't rot in some third world jail or if you have to go through a show trial, they will get you out somehow.
I can understand that you know the witless socialists in charge haven't got the balls to sort anything out and would fuck up something like this, and do-gooder rules of engagement you have to work under are written by similar knicker-wetter social worker Islington dinner party types who can't tell a 4.5'' shell from a diversity outreach seminar. (Probably something in them about rewarding the anti social behaviour - or that they are failed consumers really)

Also the government spin machine probably thought we would buy this tommy-rot as counter propaganda - so got them so sell the more victimish stories on, as a tear jerker - 'Oh How they were saved.'

BUT....

Was this the same service who fought in the South Atlantic, dodging Exocets and thousand pounders in bomb alley? The same Service of Nelson's Band of Brothers? The same grit as the heroes of the Atlantic convoys?
Whining that you were roughed up, cried for your mum 'cos the nasty boys took your stereo or you would happily derelict your duty to get home for your daughter's birthday?

This behaviour we expect from the RAF, not the Navy.

Oh, and I reckon this is covered by Article 10.

On the Barky

Well yes, less said about engine trouble the better.

We all say a day on the water is better than a day in the office, even if you are stuck alongside with a busted water pump and impeller fault.

Here's what we should have been doing. Obviously without the leeches.

Another Bank Holiday bites the dust

IN the good old days, this Chap used to indulge himself thoroughly at Easter. I would either take the barky over to Normandy raid the wine shops, eat oysters, langoustines and scallops and go out for sumptuous 8 course dinners, then toot our way home to stay awake in the wee hours of the darker watches.
This had the advantages of cocking a snook at the Douaniers, enjoying the thrill of the vintner (seriously) sending our their delivery boy in stripey shirt, beret and sack-barrow of our wine to our pontoon and load the swag on the boat for us.

Or I used to go out to some den of iniquity in London, listen to loud repetitive music while frying my brains on a vast amount of Gin, Absinthe and assorted recreational pharmaceuticals. The extra long weekend meant we could go out on Friday night to some exclusive place, return at 6 am, chase the buzz until we passed out at lunchtime Saturday but - and this is the best bit -we would then get up at 7am on Sunday and stride of to some of the old archway clubs south of the river for Sunday after parties where would get ourselves into a very sorry state with a bunch of other people in a very sorry state. Stagger home at about 3 in the afternoon, drink champers, then go to bed at a christian hour refreshed for another bank holiday Monday to go and count parakeets in the park.

Oh, how times have changed. I mused on this point on Saturday night.
Chumrade came round Sat pm for Barbie and Pimms. Chumrade with whom most of the above escapades were set about with great alacrity.
We sipped our Pimms in the dying sunshine and reviewed Easter so far.

I had been doing my decking, borders and been to the tip twice.

He had stained his shed and made some rather fine Chili and Tomato jam.

We reached the same conclusion, at the same time.

We have both become our Dads.

This we had to rectify and recitfy immediately.

Drank Pimms. Opened a bottle of Burgundy and in a fit of wanton destruction, not only burned the left over wood from my tree felling, but - and this was the most sweetly cathartic - the nasty cane garden furniture the Ex Miss Chap left behind when she did a 'Lando'.
My Chimanea fair glowed red hot!

We stopped short of urinating out our territories, but I cannot testify about the Howler Monkey impersonations.

Celebrated by flying all day on Monday. Strafed half of Cambridgeshire and almost had missile-lock on another glider who nearly barged me out of a thermal at 1800 feet (Too close - had to go to guns, bastard)

Word to the wise - all it takes is a big toy to bring out the boy in a grown man. No matter how cool, suave or sophisticated we appear - it just takes the right motivation. Same thing happened with my father. Sober, respectable semi retired businessman - reduced to sandpit fun when he hired a mini JCB to sort his garden out.

An incentive to get the front lawn done.

Prune-Man exceeds like excess itself

I don't need to hat-tip or link this, because everyone else has, and it is getting blanket coverage.

But, Keith, dear boy, Keith - we were all expecting to have to snort your ashes to get that unusual high - on the grounds that you had hoovered all the good stuff up already.

Rock and/or Roll. Love it.

Back on the blockade duties

A Channel crossing, yesterday.

At last a chumrade has conspired and planning some vacational activity. This currently comprises two fiendish plots.

Plot one.

Fast packet out of Pompeii and rapid dash to Cherbourg. Baffle Les Douaniers, confound the Bonapartistes and make a dash to Normandy Wines. Purchase summer wine requirements, eat sumptuous fish luncheon in St Vaast. Drink strong French coffee, get on fast packet home. Spend rest of bank holiday communing with swag, eating off mega-grill in the courtyard (whilst throwing bones over fence into Vet's garden for added amusements) then pootle off to the flying club, where we can strafe our own airfield in return for the local pikeys not stealing our land rover again.

Nothing like a good holiday at home.

Plot two.

Same conspirator, plus a chum who is an unreconstructed champagne Marxist.
Take the barky on the slow route to Normandy from Gosport. Spend relaxing week buying wine, eating sumptuous fish luncheons in St Vaast, Honfleur and Cherbourg. Eat quantities of French meat off barbecue on back of boat, tossing bones at the marauding packs of French curs while we drink strong coffee - for extra amusement.
Then on return to blighty, throw all cheap tobacco overboard to make up for not having to queue to go through customs.
Nothing like a good holiday away.

There will be no rowing skiffs, nothing to do with the Thames and absolutely no dog coming with us, will there, Monty.