Celtic Illumination, part 152, Aut Pugna Aut Morere, Fight or die.

Well, you’ve done it again.  Your voracious reading has brought another award to Celtic Illumination, The Versatile Blogger Award.  This time the nomination came from one of our own Illuminati, Brad Fonseca, a Canadian fellow in Canada.  Thank you very much Brad.  This just shows what good taste and how cultured you all are.  I understand that I have certain tasks to carry out now so I will prepare everything once I have finished today’s blog.  The goat is the tethered in the yard, the altar is prepared and the virgins should arrive shortly after tea.

So; it was my first day in Germany.  Getting out of bed was very difficult and if I remember correctly the water in the shower was very noisy indeed.  I dragged myself to the mess for some breakfast and was standing at the servery looking at a row of ties that had been pinned above the servery, when one of the ladies, reached forward, took my tie and snipped it in half with a pair of scissors.  Luckily Gary was with me and he took me away to a table where he explained that this was ‘Rosenmontag’  (Rose Monday) the highlight of the German carnival.

It seems that, in Germany on Rosenmontag, a lady can cut off your tie and if she can match it up again that evening, you are hers for the night.  I saw the row of thirty plus black ties and wondered if any of the fellows would actually go to the local town that night wearing half a tie.  With a good feed inside me, I still didn’t feel any better, so set off to ‘arrive’.  It was all very organised, you could tell that no air traffickers were involved.  First I had to attend an arrivals brief.  The Sherriff, the senior police person on the camp, kicked everything off by breathalysing everyone in the room.  He wasn’t completely off his rocker but was showing us that if we had an accident, first thing in the morning, as a part of their standard approach, the civilian German police would breathalyse all concerned drivers.  Everyone in the room failed the breath test and he warned us to be very careful.

There followed a selection of briefings concerning the role of the unit, the expected standard of behaviour both on and off camp, the wearing of uniforms off camp, and what we would be doing for the following two weeks.  I had forgotten about the SWO’s working party and realised that I would be emptying the bins on Wildenrath for the next fortnight.  Despite the fact that I had attended an overseas briefing at Honnington before leaving the UK I was now expected to go through the whole thing again.

The rock apes who ran this one watched far too many Rambo movies.  I don’t suggest anyone try CS gas with oatmeal biscuits, perhaps a little cream cheese.  It would certainly take away the taste of your breakfast.  I don’t mean the first time you eat it, I mean the second time you see your breakfast, as it comes back out thanks to the CS gas.  To make matters more interesting they put us on the rifle range wearing our full NBC kits.  I was still a rubbish shot.  

The following day I began the arrival procedure, which is wandering around camp and reporting in to every department, so in a way you were physically making sure that you were entered into their system.  At SHQ I was told that I needed to open a bank account with a local German bank.  Luckily there were two German banks on camp so I wandered into one and asked to open an account.

After my experience in the UK and aware that I was awaiting some form of disciplinary action I can freely state that bankers were not my favourite people.  I have to admit I was taken by surprise.  I reported to the counter and introduced myself.  A young lady came to me and explained that she was the manager and would help me open an account.  She pulled out a typewriter and very quickly filled out the required form.  “How much would you like to borrow?” she asked, as she slid a cheque book and card across the counter to me.

“Nothing,” I said.  “I just want to open an account.”  “Yes,” she said, with wonderful Teutonic efficiency.  “But you are in Germany now, you will want to buy a car, or go on holiday.  How much do you want to borrow?”  The pen hovered over the empty box and I was amazed.  In England bank managers were very much a part of the class system.  You had to crawl in to their office, normally all men, and almost beg for their permission to borrow some money.  Here in Germany it was a business, and they made their money from charging you interest.  I loved it.  I still didn’t borrow any money and just wanted to get out of there as quickly as I could.  I had made sure that I had gone to the families office and put my name down for a married quarter,  I was told that it could take anything up to seven weeks. 

The final place I had to report to was 92 squadron.  It was situated somewhere on the far side of the airfield, too distant to walk, so I telephoned the squadron for some transport.  A minibus arrived and I hopped on.  We drove off, away from the main camp and into the clumps of trees that surrounded the airfield.  It was a huge place.  As we entered the squadron dispersal I saw my first phantom aircraft and thought it looked an impressive beast.  The driver dropped me at the main entrance and after the regulatory deep breath I went in.

I reported to the admin desk who signed my official arrival chitty.  I was now properly at Wildenrath. I was then told to follow the corridor to air ops.  As I walked along I noticed that I was passing through a series of heavy steel doors.  The walls were getting thicker and external noises were fading away.  I walked in to the operations room and was taken back with the amount of information that was displayed.  The walls were covered in statistics boards each split into little two inch square boxes, each carrying a certain amount of information.

One wall was half glass and I could see a similar set up on the far side which was manned by engineers.  But standing before me, in a clump, was half a dozen men in green suits.  They casually ignored me as I looked around.  Then Bob Juckes came in.  This was the fellow who had bottled the station commander’s daughter.  We shook hands and introduced ourselves to each other.  “Come on,” said Bob.  “I’ll show you around.”  Bob walked around the squadron, with me in tow, and pointed at various things and I don’t think I took anything in.  It’s not that there was too much information coming at me it was just all so new, I had never come across stuff like this before.

It slowly began to sink in with me that I was in the real air force.  Bob and I were in the aircrew crew room standing at the tea bar having a coffee.  I looked about and saw all these men in green suits.  Some were pilots and some were navigators but it slowly began to dawn on me that I was actually going to be working alongside fast jet pilots.  We went back to the operations room and the pilot behind the desk got up and left, saying as he went, to Bob. “You’re in charge.”

Bob sat behind the desk and I stood in front.  He worked his way around the room explaining what our duties were.   A group of aircrew came in to the engineer’s side of the building; they were kitted out for flying and were reporting the conditions of the aircraft they had just flown.  Once they had debriefed the engineers they came through to us in air ops.  I noticed one of them was a wing commander and assumed that this was the boss of the squadron.  He set his flying helmet down and signed some papers.  Bob was dealing with him; he brought out a pipe and lit it.  Once happy with his pipe he took a deep draw and looked at me.  “Who is this?” he asked.

”Oh sorry boss,” said Bob.  “This is the new chap.”  I couldn’t believe that the wing commander walked over and offered me his hand.  I shook it.  “Good,” said the wing commander.  “Welcome to ninety two.”  “Thank you sir,” I said.  “When do you start?”  “Tomorrow boss,” said Bob, and I butted in.  “No.  I’m on the SWO’s working party.  I’ve gotta empty the bins on camp for a fortnight.”  I had sort of resigned myself to the fact that I would have to complete this duty; after all, air traffic had never stood up for me before.

“Phone the SWO’s office,” said the boss.  “Tell him that I can’t spare any of my men.”  Bob was already dialling.  I couldn’t believe that someone would actually stick up for me.  Bob replaced the receiver and nodded.  The boss picked up his flying helmet.  “Welcome to the Cobra’s, we don’t empty bins here.   You’ve got two weeks to train him up Bob,” said the boss, who walked away winking at me.  “What does he mean two weeks?” I asked, once I felt that he was out of earshot.  “Oh,” said Bob, in a very matter of fact way.  “You’ve gotta be up to speed in two weeks, because we’re off to Cyprus in a fortnight.”

Celtic Illumination, part 151, Willkommen in Deutschland

The only information that I had been given about my posting was that I was being sent to join 92 squadron at RAF Wildenrath in Germany.  I knew nothing else about the squadron or the role I would be expected to play.  As luck would have it another fellow, Gary Palmer was posted on the same day, from Watton, to Wildenrath.  Gary was joining 19 squadron, so we were able to travel together.  Gary had been stationed in Germany before, so I considered myself to be very lucky that I would be traveling with an experienced fellow.

Irene had been dropped at her mothers in Liverpool, as we didn’t know how long it would be before we would be allocated a married quarter in Germany.  Our household possessions had been packed away in cases and sent to Germany so I carried all my personal equipment and uniforms in my kit bags.  I do remember that it was a Sunday we were travelling on.  I had been staying with Peter Chidgely and his wife Gail.  Gary and I reported to the lodge bar, on the Sunday lunchtime, the moment it opened, for our final session with the troops.  It was great fun and we used the land rover to get us, and our kit bags,  in to Norwich train station where the troops gave us a twenty one gun salute on our departure.

Had they been real guns instead of brightly coloured water pistols I think the locals in Norwich might have been much more concerned than they already were.  We had a great laugh and set of for Luton airport.  It was as we were waiting for the flight that both Gary and I noticed some military flavoured coppers observing us from behind a glass wall.  I didn’t want to arrive in Germany in even more trouble than I was already in.  I was in trouble for buying a barrel of beer, to be given away in the rugby club, at my final session there.  This was common practice.

I had gone to the sergeant’s mess and paid for the barrel.  I had my wages coming in from the abattoir and I had my RAF wages going in to the bank.  I think there was also some extra money coming in, associated with my posting overseas, so I was quite flush, however I could see that there might be a small overlap in my bank account as each lump of money would come in on a different date.  I went down to the bank on the high street, one lunch time, and asked the assistant manager for a one hundred pound overdraft.

I showed detail of the monies I was expecting in and also explained that the RAF took bouncing cheques, or financial mismanagement, as a very serious issue.  I wanted to be careful and cover my six o clock.  The assistant manager assured me that the overdraft would be no problem, so I was able to go ahead and spend whatever I needed.  I had then been notified by the clerk at the sergeant’s mess that the cheque I had left, for the beer, had bounced.  Only an idiot would do such a thing, so I asked if I could come down take the cheque back and give them the cash instead.  I was told no, that the cheque was in the system, and I would have to be disciplined.

As you may expect I reported to the bank and asked to see the assistant manager.  He was at lunch so I was able to see the manager.  I explained that I wasn’t happy, I had been told that I had an overdraft facility and now the bank were bouncing my cheques I wanted to know what was going on.  The manager checked the records of my account and declared that there was nothing in writing therefore his bank was right to bounce the cheques.  I explained that his assistant manager had given me permission but the manager insisted that as there was nothing in writing I was in the wrong.  I explained that I thought he was as useless as his lying assistant and stormed out.

There was no point in pursuing the matter as the assistant manager would probably be as stupid as the manager, although I did learn a very important lesson and was extremely careful with all my financial transactions from that moment on.  It still didn’t alter the fact that I had committed a serious sin and would have to wait until I arrived in Germany before the matter could be dealt with.  Not the sort of thing you want to happen when you arrive at a new unit, but there wasn’t a lot I could do about it.  I was determined to arrive as a smart young airman.

As Gary and I kept an eye on the military police, I wondered if something had happened at Norwich train station, or if someone had complained, or if we were in trouble for using the land rover to get to the station.  One of the coppers came out and over to us.  He asked Gary to follow him and I could see Gary chatting away to the coppers behind the glass wall.  Next thing, is that Gary is handcuffed to some glum looking fellow, and I wondered how long it would be before I would be wearing the steel bracelets from Sheffield.

Luckily I wouldn’t.  Gary had been identified as the largest person travelling and a prisoner, who was being sent back to Germany, had been handcuffed to Gary and would remain so for the duration of the flight.  Heartbeats were set back to normal and I enjoyed the flight.  It was quite exciting to actually arrive in Germany.  Gary and I reported to the guard room and were given temporary accommodation, which meant sharing a room with twenty other fellows who like us, had only arrived in Germany.

It was strange sharing a room with twenty other chaps again but nothing really out of the ordinary, so it was easy enough to settle in.  Gary had been to Wildenrath before so it was nice being with someone who knew their way about.  We went to the mess and had tea then Gary told me that there was only one place to go when at Wildenrath, the rugby club.

Normally I would keep my head down when arriving somewhere new.  I would watch and listen before announcing myself, Gary was a little different. To say he was loud would be an understatement. There was a good crowd in the rugby club so I would have ordered beer and sat quietly in a corner.  Gary however stormed in, announcing that Wildenrath’s rugby future was secured as the two best prop forwards in the RAF had arrived.  We were welcomed with open arms and joined straight in to the scene.  I was quite stunned as Gary had announced that we were to drink double brandies.

I wasn’t really a brandy drinker, in fact I wasn’t really a shorts person, I preferred beer, and lots of it but I couldn’t get over the fact that the coke, for we were drinking brandy and coke’s, I couldn’t get over the fact that the coke, used as a mixer, was more expensive than the double brandy.  As you can imagine it wasn’t very long before I was everybody’s best friend.  I can remember feeling quite happy; it may have been something to do with the double brandies. 

One fellow, part of a larger group, was standing beside me.  “Hi,” he said.  “Just arrived?”  “Yes,” I said.  “Today.”  “Where are you posted to?” he asked.  “Oh, here,” I said, not realising how stupid my answer had been.  “No,” he said.  “What unit?”  “Oh!” I said, understanding my mistake.  “92 squadron.  I’ve been posted on to 92 squadron.”  “Great,” he said, smiling at me.  “I’m on 92 squadron as well.  Do you wear a green romper suit or a blue romper suit?”  “Pardon?” I asked, not really understanding his question.  “Do you wear a green romper suit or a blue romper suit?”  I still didn’t understand what he was talking about but luckily Gary did.

“Aircrew wear green flying suits, groundcrew wear blue overalls.  He wants to know if you are aircrew or groundcrew,” explained Gary.  “Ah!” I said, now that the proverbial penny had finally dropped.   “Neither,” I explained.  “I’m in air ops.”  I was quite surprised to see my new chum being jumped on by all the friends with him and wrestled to the ground, which was quite handy as I was down there too.  You see he had punched me in the face and split my lip.  Quite a good punch too, caught me off guard and had me on the floor.

Seems that each squadron had two air ops guys.  The other fellow on 92 squadron was being court martialled for smashing a beer glass in the face of the station commander’s daughter and the groundcrew felt that this brought shame on the whole squadron.  It was double brandies all round and ‘hail fellow well met’ abounded.  I can heartily recommend double brandy and coke as a sleeping draught.  But what I would not recommend is turning up at your new unit, late, looking like a dog has dragged you through a hedge backwards, with a busted lip and a hangover that could throttle a donkey.

Celtic Illumination, part 150, Messing about on the river

Watton was quite a good place from which you could travel out and visit the East of the country, or even London if you were adventurous enough.  We were close enough to the Norfolk broads that occasionally boats would be hired and parties would be celebrated.  Mad parties that I shall not dare talk about as most of them are probably still under police investigation.  All I shall say is that no matter where we went it was always madness and mayhem.

Imagine if you will Cambridge.   Picture in your mind the slow flow of the river Cam, the well-manicured lawns of the university, and students gathered in groups, discussing stuff.  Young gentlemen, in straw boaters and brightly coloured waistcoats, and a swan gliding by.  Now can you imagine two punts?  The hot summer sunshine and a group of drunken Pheasant Pluckers charging at each other, on punts, using the five meter long poles as a lances.  Now can you imagine one of the punts sinking and people shouting?  Not us, we were too busy laughing, and then running.  Oh the joy.  By the way, when punting, drop the pole to hit bottom, push away and twist.  The twist stops the pole from sticking in the mud.

I used to enjoy visiting various auctions, not to buy anything, just to have a nose about and get a feel for what was happening.  They always seemed to be full of Americans, who I can only imagine were buying history by the truck full and shipping it back stateside. We would occasionally visit Liverpool and Irene’s family.  The first thing I would do is grab her dad and whisk him off to the pub where I would fill him with brown ale and dark rum and just listen to the great stories he would tell me.  He had served on bomb disposal in Africa during the Second World War and I promise you had some wonderful tales to tell.

My worst enemy is myself if I am bored and I do remember on one occasion as I was wandering through a market in Liverpool, that I saw some fake brown fur.  I don’t know what possessed me but I bought a load and began to cover the inside of my car, the Brown Ford Cortina mark three.  Why I did it I shall never know, but once on, it wasn’t coming off.  Another time I found myself at a loose end and went to the cinema in the afternoon.  I subsequently found myself going back another four times over the following two days.  A strange thing to do, to watch the same film, five times in a row.  But if I were to tell you that the film was the Blues Brothers then you may agree that I wasn’t so mad after all.

Watton was still same old place.  People moved in and out, seasons went from season to season.  One day I was standing in the crew room when John Lewis came in.  John was the fantastic cricketer and footballer who I had initially met at Valley.  The chap who asked me to escort his cousin, the RAF nurse, to his wedding.  Yes that John Lewis.  John had married a Welsh lass, from Welsh Wales, and she had insisted that she wanted to return to Valley so that she could be near her family.  John had requested that his name be removed from the overseas list and further requested a posting back to Valley.

If you wanted to be considered for an overseas posting, you had to fill out an application form, yes the one where you had to have ‘the honour to be your obedient servant’ and ask permission to be considered for selection for overseas duty.  I always thought about it but had never got around to it.  John came into the crew room this day, and was in quite a mood. Seems like the Wing Commander had a friend at Innsworth who had informed him that the clerks at Valley, in order to get themselves at the top of the overseas list, hadn’t submitted any names from Valley.

I found myself sliding out through the door and along the corridor to the admin sergeant.  Mitch just growled at me but he had been at Valley as well.  “I wonder if it is possible to find out whereabouts my name is on the overseas list?” I asked.  “We’re thinking of starting a family and I need to plan ahead,” I lied.  Mitch looked at me and I think he knew what had really sparked my interest in the overseas list, but he nodded and assured me that he would check it out for me.

Two weeks later I saw my name in routine orders.  I had been posted to Germany.  I hadn’t even considered going abroad however there was no backing out of it now.  Irene like me was a bit stunned, but we went through the motions and began packing our stuff.  Initially the thought that we had a couple of weeks to prepare was great, but then as we tried to plan ahead we were finding that there wasn’t enough time.  I had to attend a special course at Honington where I had to be prepared for Germany.

The more cultured Illuminati among you will probably think this would take the form of a series of lectures about the history and culture and customs of Germany with perhaps some German language classes.  Well; this was the air force and I had to go and fire a gun on the rifle range and eat biscuits in a CS gas chamber.  Of course being posted overseas meant that you had to drink an awful lot of beer as it is the only decent way of saying goodbye to friends.  One evening Peter Chidgely and myself were quite drunk and were staggering back to our houses on the married patch.

We noticed that the station ensign was still flying so we decided to steal it.  It was the same ensign I had decorated with knickers, so it would be a suitable keepsake for me from Watton. It was a foul night and I remember coming through my front door and looking at the damp flag and throwing it into an open packing case.  The following day, sitting in a boring lecture about gas, or bombs, or something, a policeman came in and asked for me by name.  I was escorted to a telephone and was handed the receiver.

“Have you got the Watton ensign?” asked the copper from Watton, at the other end of the telephone.  “Yes,” I said.  “I’ll bring it back later.”  I didn’t think much more about it but wish I knew who had been the duty airman the night before, as he would no doubt be in trouble for leaving the flag out all night.  The copper did not possess amazing detective qualities.  He had gone to the lodge and asked who was drunk in the bar the previous evening and he had already telephoned Peter.

I went over to SHQ late that afternoon.  It was still raining so I was wearing my raincoat.  I went in and was a bit on edge as the copper seemed to be quite excited.  He asked me to wait in the admin office as he went in to see the Commanding Officer.  I know it sounds grand but the ‘Commanding Officer’ was a Flight Lieutenant, nothing special.  For some reason I whipped off my beret and stuck it in my raincoat pocket, like any decent airman would.  I then undid the buttons on my raincoat and then did them back up again, but out of sync.

The copper called for me to come in so I sauntered in.  I wandered over to the radiator and said.  “The flag’s a bit wet; do you want me to put it on the radiator?”

I don’t know who started screaming first, the CO or the copper, but the essence of their screaming was for me to get out.  I did, and was quickly followed by the copper.  He watched as I redid all my buttons and put my beret on.  He then instructed me that he would march me in; I was to come to attention and salute, like a proper airman.  I did and was stood standing to attention before the CO.  He began talking at me.  He said that he didn’t think he would explain what I had done wrong to me as I was a stupid Irishman and therefore too thick to understand.

I was pleased with his honesty, because it showed what a small minded little empire builder he really was, however I was displeased that I couldn’t reach over his desk and give him two black eyes.  He continued hurling foul, racist, abuse at me and I promise you I have never been so insulted in all my life.  The copper was smiling and I knew that in a decent world, the pair of them would have been on the floor and remained there for some time for their ignorance. 

I left the office with my ears ringing.  I could not believe that such a stupid person existed.  I was really very angry but realised that at least the following day I was going to Germany.  

Celtic Illumination, part 149, Bean stealers.

I was glad that Watton was top heavy with air traffickers as it was embarrassing to meet anyone from the real air force and have to tell them that you were in air traffic control. In fact I never thought I would ever experience a job as humiliating as height finding until I worked in the abattoir and realised that there were many more rungs below the career Hell that I was in.  Andy Swetman had gone off for sergeant aircrew, Tim looked as if he had entered self-destruct mode and I was too stupid to give up.

It was one evening Irene and I had gone to a local pub, the Willow House, for a meal and a few scoops.  It was quite funny as rumour control stated that The Willow House was posh and should only be used by officers and those on good behaviour.  The oiks, like me, were confined to The Crown Hotel or The Kings Arms.  I didn’t like the Crown Hotel anymore as many of the younger abattoir workers would drink in there and they usually became quite antagonistic.  I was a natural target for their aggression as I was not only a foreigner but in the RAF too.  Thankfully I never had to show any of them how to walk on the rice paper without leaving any marks.  Although, I have to admit, I wouldn’t have minded leaving a couple of them with marks.

Well; Irene and I are happily ensconced in a comfortable comer in The Willow House when in comes a failed fast jet pilot and his lady.  As drink had been taken by all concerned the gentleman, failed fast jet pilot, and his lady joined me and my wife.  I still hadn’t grasped the difference between officers and airmen.  Respect for me was something you earned.  This fellow and I got on quite well, we swopped jokes, shot the breeze and generally had a laugh.  But the conversation then veered over towards the future and careers. 

My tongue had probably been loosened by the drink so I gave him what for, told him what I thought of his air force.  The failed fast jet pilot seemed to actually care.  He may have been showing off in front of his lady but he suggested that if I could prove to him that I had what it takes.   Once again, this fellow thinks he is better than me because he has successfully been through the officer and aircrew selection centre, then at Biggen Hill.  So too have I, why do I have to keep proving myself to failed fast jet pilots?

At that time there was a big hoo haa in the press about a hefty pay rise for the armed forces.  One failed fast jet pilot who had had his legs blown off in a bomb attack in Aiden had used his compensation money to buy a Lotus, he was asked to park it around the rear of the buildings as it wouldn’t be a very good idea to plead poverty if some of us were driving Lotus cars.  I can’t remember that fellows name but I do remember playing squash against him.

I knew, well; everyone knew that he walked with some difficulty and rumour control stated that the legs had gone below the knee, above the knee, at the hips, so no one knew for sure the true extent of his injuries and no one would have the temerity to ask.  I was progressing well up the station squash ladder when I saw that he was the next person I had to challenge.  Suitably togged out I went to the squash courts and couldn’t help but notice his heavily bandaged knees and it was most obvious that the lower legs were plastic.  He won the game before the first service for I couldn’t help imagine if I sent him a difficult return that he would go one way and his legs the other.

Anyway, back to The Willow House and the failed fast jet pilot.  He suggested that I write him a two and a half thousand word essay debating the pros and cons of the proposed pay rise for the armed forces.  If I could present him with such an essay, of a decent standard mind you, he would help me get past the boss and off to Biggen Hill.  Well; as you can imagine the midnight oil was burned, the scribe was scribbling and words were smithed.  I completed the essay and not only was it factually correct, exactly two and a half thousand words long, written by a well serviced fountain pen, on unlined paper, it was funny too.

I gave it to him at work in a sealed brown envelope and never heard another word about it.  As you can imagine my faith, or trust, or even the slightest respect for any failed fast jet pilot had gone, not that there had ever been very much there in the first place.   The air force was constantly letting me down, the locals were getting more hostile, something had to happen and that was Taff Pope.  Taff was the only person I knew who was quite comfortable sitting in the bar smoking a huge spliff.

Now drugs, the use of or possession of, were deeply frowned upon in the armed forces.  We would be marched in, once a year, to view a movie about drug taking and drug takers.  It was quite uncomfortable viewing and never showed a group of people laughing their heads off at nothing, but did show a procession of hopeless individuals injecting themselves and collapsing with the needle still stuck in their veins.  It was a blood, guts, gore and veins in your teeth type of production.  It certainly worked for me, I would never consider injecting myself but I could never believe the tales they told about marijuana use.

Taff apparently didn’t either and it was quite pleasant to sit with him now and again, smoke a spliff and just relax into laughter and dreams.  Had we consumed a bottle of whiskey each, then smashed the bottles over each other’s heads and set fire to the bar, this would have been viewed as high spirits but laughing at nothing was deemed to be highly irresponsible and dangerous.  In fact Taff completed his service at Watton and needed to return to his home in the valleys of South Welsh Wales.

He hired a car for the weekend and asked me to drive him home.  Irene and I jumped at the chance of a mini adventure.   Taff was a friend, so you had to help him out.  Despite all his bravado and his ‘couldn’t care less attitude’ I’ll never forget glancing in the rear view mirror, as we left Watton, to see Taff in the rear of the car crying his eyes out.  I wondered if I would feel the same on the day that I left.  

Celtic Illumination, part 148, Snowball, Napoleon and me

I understand that to be a good and effective leader you should have experienced some tough times, taken some hard decisions.  I can now see that the double top secret cabal who were organising my life so that I would turn out to be the greatest Master Candle Maker, the greatest High Chief of the Clan O Neil and, the greatest ever King of Ireland were aiming to produce a special person.  Ireland would need the strongest King, ever, in its history to step forward and lead its people out of the mess they have wallowed in for years.  But to create such a leader, my experiences would not be tough or hard, they would be seriously extreme.

I decided not to tell Irene everything about my time in Ireland and stored the incident in the back of my mind.  I wasn’t trying to hide from it, or ignore it; I just didn’t know how to handle it.  It didn’t take long to settle back into the routine of things.  I saw an opportunity where I could make some decent money at a spare time job so applied for it.  The local abattoir needed a night cleaner on a part time basis.  I went for the interview and was pleased to find that there were no fixed days but that I would be required to work four hours in the evening, when available, cleaning the gut room.

I was given the job there and then and was taken away to be issued with rubber boots and overalls, a hard hat, gloves and goggles.  I was even given a locker and couldn’t believe my luck.  I turned up for work the first evening and, having kitted myself out, reported to the night supervisor.  He took me to the gut room, which is where the intestines were separated from the other organs, cleaned, salted and stored for use as sausage skins.

I was given some stiff brooms and a steam hose and told that I had four hours.  I set about the place and gave it a good clean.  The next night I arrived and was making my way to the gut room when I was told that I had to report to the night manager.  I went along wondering what sort of trouble I had got myself into now.  The night manager informed me that the other cleaners were complaining about me.  Seems that the gut room had never been so clean and my efforts had put the other cleaners to shame, could I slow down a bit and not be so efficient.

I started to settle in to the abattoir and got to know the other fellows.  They were quite, well, very relaxed and often smelled and acted as if they had spent a good few hours in the local pub before reporting for work. One fellow I got friendly with was Peter, another cleaner.  I remember one night creeping up behind him as he was about to slide a pitchfork under a heap of sheep heads when I bleated out loud.  He almost died of fright.  All the guts and bits and pieces, that were of no monetary value, were scooped up into large metal tubs which would be taken outside and dumped into a much larger metal container.

One evening Peter asked me for help as he had raised a metal bin with his fork lift and the metal tub had slipped off one of the forks and was about to fall in to the main container.  I went outside and immediately sized up the situation.  I got a piece of rope and climbed up on top of the large container.  The one thing I hadn’t taken in to account, and why should I have even considered it as I had never been standing on top of one of these huge containers before, but it was very slippery.

I slipped, reached out to the tub to steady myself, but it came off the forks completely and sank into the mess below.  The large container had metal flaps which would be closed, when the thing was in transit, so what I was standing on was covered in fat and blood and God knows what else.  Like with the plastic bag and snow relationship I discovered that the co efficient of friction between my arse and a slippery surface is zero, or close to it.  There was no way of stopping myself as I slowly slid forward and down, waist deep, into that days collection of offal and guts and heads and hooves and blood.

I can still feel the dampness soak through my overalls and into my clothes underneath and I honestly do not think that I could describe the smell or the way the air tasted.  I could hear Peter laughing his head off outside and calling for the others to come and have a look.  It would appear that I had now been initiated into life at the abattoir and was allowed to leave early that evening to get home and spend the next five days sitting in a bath scrubbing myself clean.  Of course as initiations go it wasn’t that subtle.  I doubt if any of them would have survived a mountain rescue initiation.

My work was so good that they invited me to come and work a shift or two each week in the gut room.  I accepted and began my first full shift.  I know that there is an old saying claiming that the only part of a pig you cannot eat is its squeak.  That is perhaps true, but at this abattoir there were one or two other small pieces that were not used.  I soon discovered that these were thrown about the abattoir, for fun, especially at the new boy.

I was amazed at the way the cows were slaughtered.  From the size of the beast and the rapidity with which it was processed stunned me.  I could have watched them for hours but was instead required to work.  My first job was to stand at the bottom of a slide.  In the next room the pigs were slaughtered then opened and their entrails were pushed along and came down a stainless steel slide to me.  I had to cut the stomach off and then slide the remaining entrails along.  I would then slice the stomach open, empty it and wash it and then throw that into a large tub.  I understood that these went to be processed into dog food.

The pigs anus was removed with four stabs of a knife so that you ended up with a small, diamond shaped, lump of flesh.  This was the main item thrown about the abattoir, so as I would be working away with my stomachs, lumps of flesh would come hurtling towards me.  If they didn’t hit me they would slap against the white tiled wall in front of me and ooze their way to the floor.  At least now I was getting to understand what I was cleaning in the evenings.  I shall never forget the look of amusement, from my fellow workers, on my first lunch break when I opened my lunch box to discover that all my scran had been removed and replaced with a number of diamond shaped pieces of flesh.  Oh they were so funny.

I wasn’t allowed as much free time as I should have enjoyed, for I loved watching the animals as they waited, wondering if they knew, or could sense,  what lay in store for them at the end of the tunnel they were being forced into.  I was taken out one day and given a pitch fork.  I was shown a room which as there was straw on the floor, looked like an animal holding cell.  There were a number of steel tubs full of liver and some had tipped over.  I was asked to get some new tubs and using the pitchfork clear up the spilled livers.  Standing knee deep in raw liver was a most effective exercise, for budding vegetarians, as I have never eaten liver since and when I think about it feel very much like the character Monty from the film Withnail and I, who says, “As a youth I used to weep in butcher’s shops.”

So, the money was good, I was able to buy meat in the abattoir shop, with staff discount thank you very much; the work was so simple a failed fast jet pilot could have done it.  With hindsight I can see why the future king of Ireland should be made to understand a massive, and somewhat contentious, part of the food production process.  But I expect they also wanted me to work with dumb beasts and try to understand them more.  I did and I do but I still have trouble with the Norfolk accent.  They had clocking in and out machines and the supervisors were on the ball most of the time, especially when they were sober, but the one thing they failed to notice, was that I arrived for each shift in my civvie clothes and left wearing a brand new pair of overalls.

Celtic Illumination, part 147, With muffled drum.

Irene and I seemed to fit each other well, what I mean is that neither of us didn’t feel any compulsion to follow societies norms.  It is quite obvious now that as a royal personage I should be the one setting the standards, not following them.  I don’t think it even occurred to us that we should have had a honeymoon.  It was a good while after we had been married that we decided to have a holiday which, as it was our first as a married couple, could have been referred to as a honeymoon.

We had no one to impress or keep up with, only ourselves to entertain so we decided that we should have a romantic break to Cornwall.  The weather was a mixture of rain and sun but I loved it.  For a literature lunatic like myself I was in my element.  I embraced storms and foul weather and would sit for hours watching the waves and allowing my imagination to wander along the many lanes, cliffs and coves meeting my friends and hero’s, like Jim Hawkins, Long John Silver, Billy Bones and dear old Horatio himself. There was an attempt to popularise certain aspects, like pirate themed pubs, but in the more remote areas it was quite perfect, untouched by the tourist coin.

When we got back to Watton I found a note from Jon Hampson asking that I call on him at his house.  I did, and the moment Jon answered his door I knew something was up.  Jon explained that a phone call had come through and my father was dead.  This was a bit of a tricky one for I hadn’t communicated with anyone from my family since I had got married.  Now I was expected to return to Ireland and mix with people who would not speak to me.  I didn’t really know my father as they kept sending me away to Gaeltachts and boarding schools.  On top of that they were always very keen to remind me that they had adopted me so I suppose it wasn’t a normal father son relationship.

I was happy that it was Jon Hampson who had broken the news to me, as he was a close friend, but I understand he was disciplined for this as an officer should have told me.  Events seemed to be in control and the RAF had arranged everything for me as in transport and flights back to Belfast so I sort of followed along.  It was while I was at Heathrow that I wondered who I could get to pick me up from Aldergrove.  I wasn’t sure who in the family was speaking with me so I telephoned a good ol boy, namely Phelim Fegan, and asked if he would pick me up.  

It’s an awful thing to admit that you could rely more on your friends than your family but such was the case.  The aircraft was half empty and it sort of suited my mood.  I wasn’t upset; I think I could safely say that I was numb.  It wasn’t the funeral I was worried about but the reception, or lack of it, from the other members of my family.  As I came through security at Aldergrove I looked about for the good ol boys.  They spotted me first.  There was a bar on the second floor and Peter Rogan and Phelim Fegan had settled themselves in for a bit of a session as they waited for me.

Most people may have expected their friends to adopt a sombre mood, given the situation.  I was lucky enough to have total madmen for friends as they roared for me to join them, it was my fecking round.  I made my way up to the bar to find that they had included me in their session and I now faced a line of half a dozen pints and vodka chasers.  I managed to get them to drink a fair share of what they had amassed for me and then went off to find the car.  Peter and Phelim were having problems walking so it was decided that I should drive.

We hadn’t got very far out of Aldergrove before we had been stopped by an army check point, and it all started again.  “What’s your name?”  “Phelim.  What’s yours?”   “Where do you live?”  “Our house.  Where do you live?”  I brought out my air force identity card and showed it to the soldier. I was immediately waved through.   I’m now attacked by Phelim and Peter who both want me to get them ‘one of those things’ as they had never gone through a road check point so fast in all their lives.

The remainder of the journey was uneventful, unless you consider a constant stream of abuse about my driving skills, or lack of them, all the way to Warrenpoint.  Luckily Warrenpoint was still quite small and most people knew of each other.  When we entered the town I went to drive up the Bridle Loanan and was surprised that the good ol boys were telling me to go in the opposite direction.  They were amazed at how stupid I was not remembering that we had moved house.  I didn’t have the time, nor the inclination, to tell them that I hadn’t spoken to any member of my family for some time and therefore didn’t know that they had moved house.  I kept quiet and got out at the new house.

I could see that the house was full of people so I took a deep breath and went in.  Carol was there and was the only person to speak to me.  As you may expect she just called me a long list of names and offered insult after insult.  How terrible I was turning up smelling of drink, I should have shown some respect.  I excused myself and went upstairs where I saw a bedroom with all my furniture so assumed that this would be my room.  I closed the door and sat on the bed feeling comfortable amongst all my old things, my pictures and holy statues.

The following day saw the funeral and I went through the motions.  The pervert priest officiated at the funeral and I was pleased to see many of my friends in the congregation as I carried the coffin from the church.  The solemn mood was broken outside the church when some young fellows shouted “Brit bastard!” at me.  I had to smile for there were more members of the IRA inside the church than you could shake a stick at.  I was a member of the British armed forces and therefore a Brit.  I didn’t know who my biological parents were so was a sort of bastard.  As the young fellows were theoretically correct in their choice of insult I didn’t ask that anyone ‘have a word’ with them.

There was a meal afterwards and I again attended, simply going through the motions, but I couldn’t stomach the hypocrisy so left.  Luckily Phelim and Peter were in the public bar of the hotel and we escaped to a small bar in Rostrevor, Tinnelly’s.  I couldn’t believe the pair of them.  Once again I found myself sitting in an IRA pub surrounded by men in black leather jackets wearing dark sunglasses.  I didn’t feel uncomfortable as I knew most of the IRA men from Violent Hell.

I decided that I should get back to Watton and asked the chaps if they wouldn’t mind running me up to Aldergrove.  Of course it was no problem, so we returned to Warrenpoint where I went in to collect my bag.  I liked the new house but did prefer the old one.  Carol and my mother were in the living room and the pervert priest was in the kitchen.  I could tell from the look on his face that he didn’t want to speak to me, a very Christian attitude, so I went upstairs and threw my stuff into my bag.  As I came down all three of them were waiting for me.

Mum placed a suitcase in the centre of the hall and said. “That’s for you.”  “Thanks,” I said.  “I’m heading back now, the boys are waiting for me.”  We simply nodded at each other and I made my way to the front door.  “He was asking for you when he died,” said mum, as I opened the door.  “Even though you killed him.”  “Pardon?” I asked.  “The stress you put him under with your heathen marriage killed him,” she said, and I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.  Despite the best efforts of Phelim and Peter I remained quiet for most of the journey, showing my identity card as and when required.  I asked the good ol boys not to wait with me and waved them off knowing that it would be a very long time before I would be back in Ireland.

Celtic Illumination, part 146, A rose by any other name.

As I mentioned before, we were spoiled in the air force, we didn’t really have to do anything for ourselves, which with hindsight, is not a very good preparation for civvy life.  All I had to do was fill out an application form and two weeks later was given a fully furnished three bedroomed house.  And when I say fully furnished I mean right down to the knives, forks and spoons.  There was a huge rigmarole about actually getting a married quarter; to take one you had to officially ‘March in’ and of course when leaving you had to ‘March out.’ 

There was an awful lot of rumour and urban myth surrounding married quarters.  The required standard of cleanliness on a ‘march out’ was legend and poor old wives would spend weeks scrubbing and decorating their quarter as a matter of pride.  Even the dishes had to be spotless and one chap I remember telling, or warning me, about his married quarter experience was Gary Palmer, who was a big, rugby flavoured, fellow.  Gary was not prepared to be messed about by anyone and like many of us felt that during one ‘March out’ he was being picked on. 

There was a wooden coffee table in the living room and the officer in charge pointed at it and declared that it would have to be replaced and he would therefore charge Gary for it.  Gary then smashed the coffee table and declared that if he was paying for it, theoretically, the table was now his and he could do what he wanted with it.  Normally the table would have been left where it was and God only knows what would have happened to the money.  In the kitchen, the officer declared that the dishes had been left to drip dry and were streaky; therefore Gary was to be charged for a set of dining plates.  It was after Gary had thrown the third dining plate out through the open kitchen window that the officer realised he wasn’t going to win with Gary and charged him with nothing else.

I of course respected my little, or should I say our little house.  Most of the people I knew and associated with, on the married patch, were ardent home brewers.  I was able to move my still from the cellar of the Lodge into our small third bedroom.  Most of us would have been keen gardeners but only to grow produce to turn into booze.  Even the compost heap would have been carefully looked after, in fact at any party the men, if needing to relieve themselves, would have been encouraged to go into the garden and pee on the compost heap, as this was known to promote better decomposition.

I loved old books, still do, and one of my prize possessions was an ancient cook book in which I had found a recipe for marrow rum.  Strangely enough, after reading that recipe, half of the cultivated area of my garden was devoted to growing marrows.  Other people grew different veg, for example Jon Hampson was a great home brewer and produced the most excellent strawberry wine.  It was just as good as anything we would have bought in a bottle, but to give it that little personal touch Jon would drop a frozen strawberry into your glass, which really topped it off.

I was quite excited with my marrow rum recipe especially as the recipe stated that, rather than place a container under the marrow to collect the rum, it was easier to lie underneath it and allow the liquid to drop into your mouth, which would save you falling over having drank it.  There was another recipe in the book which I was desperate to try and that was rose petal wine.  This would involve a number of extra skills which I seemed to possess.

The first extra skill was to get up very early in the morning and, just as dawn was breaking, to raid every garden in married quarters and steal all the rose petals.  It was the only way I could gather enough rose petals.  Watton didn’t have a public park and with the way the married quarters were arranged, it was pretty easy to work my way along, through all the back gardens, without being seen or caught.  I followed the recipe, boiling up the rose petals and adding the sugar and yeast, all I had to do now was wait.

It was quite funny that evening coming home from work and seeing the RAF police investigating the scene of the crime.  I couldn’t believe that coppers were going from door to door investigating the offence of the century.  I didn’t worry that I would be caught any time soon.  In fact a couple of the girls had reported that they thought they had been followed, in the evening, as they returned to the married patch.  The RAF police were on the ball, as were we.  I was stood standing by the main gates when an RAF copper walked past.  He was undercover, so I should not have been able to tell who he was, but the RAF shoes were a bit of a giveaway, however the huge earpiece hanging off the side of his head and the squeak and squawk of his ‘concealed radio’ sort of blew his cover, so to speak.  To say that the RAF police were as much use as an ashtray on a motorbike is an understatement.

I liked to keep things simple and broke down the main alcohol producing process into easy steps.  Basically I believed all that was needed was water, sugar and yeast.  This got me thinking and the liquid with the highest sugar content that I could find was Crusha, a sort of thick syrup that was used to make flavoured milk shakes.  I now turned this into wine, and not in a biblical sense, I wasn’t doing the old Jesus party piece  I simply added water and yeast and left the demijohn in a dark, warm, place for two months.

If we had visitors I would ask what sort of wine they would like but rather than offer them the standard red or wine I would add orange, lime green, yellow or pink.  If you decide to make some home based hooch I would recommend the marrow rum.  Irene liked most of what I produced but her favourite tipple was a mixture of brandy and port.  As her birthday was fast approaching I decided to buy the best bottles of port and brandy I could find.  This involved asking the proprietor of the Crown hotel in Watton for advice.  This found me stealing a bicycle at RAF Honington.

It was one of those situations where I had been to Honington to collect something or other and noticed a brand new RAF bicycle leaning against a wall.  I felt it was my duty to liberate the bike, which would be a lesson to the person who had left it there, to be more security conscious with their belongings.  As it was an RAF bicycle it wasn’t theft, not really.  I swopped it for two bottles of the finest port that the proprietor of the Crown hotel had found in his cellar and along with a large bottle of brandy, gave Irene the finest drink she would ever have for her birthday.

I also remember the day that I opened the first bottle of rose petal wine.  I was quite excited and wished I had been as creative as Jon Hampson and had had the foresight to freeze some individual rose petals so that I could have dropped one into each glass.  My partner for the tasting session, and fellow sommelier, was Pete Chidgely.  Peter and I were both working the evening shift, so had spent the day together getting into mischief.  It was mid-afternoon and we decided that we should give the rose petal wine a go.

We were sensible, well; as far as rugby players go, and promised that we would only drink one bottle.  We did only drink one bottle and it was a very pleasurably experience.  The wine was a light pink colour but it actually smelled of roses.  It was an interesting experience and as big roughy toughy rugby players we decided that perhaps it would be better if only the ladies drank this and we should only be seen drinking huge pints of frothing beer.

Peter went off to catch the bus to Honington and I wandered on foot to work at Eastern.  It was only the next day when Peter and I got together again that we realised that we had both suffered a similar experience, due to the rose petal wine, which placed the rose petal wine into a different category all together.  I had been lucky as I only had a ten minute walk to work, Peter, on the other hand had to endure a forty minute bus journey to Honington.  And what was it we had both realised, well; rose petal wine, apart from being a very light aromatic and pleasant drink, for the ladies, was also now to be identified as the strongest laxative known to man.

Celtic Illumination, part 145, Ding dong! The bells, are going to chime.

It should come as no surprise to you, the Illuminati, to learn that my gallivanting days were numbered.  Irene had decided that she was going to marry me and there wasn’t a lot I could do about it.  She had managed to grab herself one of the most eligible chaps on the face of the earth so she was a lucky girl indeed.  If the truth be told, then it was myself who proposed to her.  I shall not go into details for it was such a romantic occasion I would hate to have you all burst into tears, and that is just the chaps.

We had no set date for the wedding or any estimation for the length of the engagement.  We set about informing our families and waited for their input for what would be the happiest days of our lives. It was suggested to me that Irene and I should go to Ireland where the two Uncle priests, one of whom would be the pervert priest, would officiate and we could enjoy a huge Irish, family, wedding.  It sounded good to me.  I don’t think I had ever been to a wedding in Ireland as a guest, my cousins had married but I was never invited for some reason.  I had seen wedding receptions when I worked as a barman, so I was looking forward to a good knees up.

Irene’s mother then suggested that it would not be fair for Irene to be robbed of enjoying the happiest day of her life without her family around her, so she suggested that we could get married in Liverpool, with all of Irene’s family in attendance.  I was like the proverbial rabbit caught in the headlights.  I didn’t know what way to turn.  I had met Irene’s family and her mother proudly stated that she was a staunch Orange woman, with no association or connection to Ireland.  Why, I have no idea, she wasn’t even a regular church goer.  However, as they say, you can choose your friends but you can’t choose your family.

It was then suggested that yes, we could get married in Liverpool, having first of all gone to Ireland and got a Catholic wedding then fly to Liverpool and have a church of England blessing or whatever the equivalent was.  This was fine for one side but the other wanted the marriage proper in Liverpool and then we could fly to Ireland and have a blessing there.  The whole thing was getting out of hand.  The Bishop of Down and Connor joined in, luckily as I knew him, for he was the old president of Violent Hell.  When I knew him he was a vicious little bastard and surprise, surprise, he hadn’t changed much in the intervening years.

He wouldn’t accept any other ceremony before the one the pervert priest would perform in Warrenpoint.  Believe it or not his opposite number in Liverpool drew the same line in the sand and the face off continued.  I had thought that all this horse shit was behind me.  Irene and I had started seeing a priest in Wymondham, so that Irene could become a Catholic, and we could get married in Ireland.  It was after a week or two of this hogwash that I put a stop to it.  I had had enough.  I thought I had left Ireland and all its hatred well behind me, and I was disgusted that it still followed me in the shadows of my life.

People these days with the proliferation of violent acts appearing immediately on our television, or computer screens, are happy to denounce the Lumpenproletariat as the cause, or back bone, of the violence.  Karl Marx described the lowest layer of society as the Lumpenproletariat.  These were the uneducated, the unemployed, the great unwashed.  My dad was the headmaster of the largest primary school in Belfast; my mother was an opera singer, Lumpenproletariat my arse.   Don’t get me wrong, I am hugely embarrassed at comments made by both sides, especially by the knuckle dragging elements, but I promise you, the hatred is ingrained in them all.

Religious hatred in the North of Ireland is a direct policy of the British empirical strategy of divide and rule.  Most sensible people realise how utterly ridiculous and stupid it is for one religion to hate another, but that’s what they have done to my country.  Add to that the pure evilness of the British class system and it’s so, so, sad to see people hiss and snarl at each other like angry cats.  The most stupid act I had ever encountered was when a Catholic parish priest wouldn’t allow my Protestant uncle Jack to be buried alongside his Catholic wife Cathleen in his graveyard.  I wasn’t having any of it.  I asked Irene if she wanted to marry me and she said ‘Yes.’  I asked if she cared where or when it would happen and she said ‘No.’  So I wandered off into Watton and booked us in to the civil registry office.

I put a note on the notice board at work stating that Irene and myself were getting married, if you were a friend then you were welcome.  Suddenly the great gang of people at Watton took over.  After the wedding in Watton a reception would be held at the rugby club and in the evening, a dance would be held in the Lodge.  The wives were organised, by Maureen, Jon Hampson’s wife and sandwiches, wedding cake and finger food was prepared.  Chunkie was even badgered in to providing some scran.

I look at people these days who talk about six, seven, or even eight thousand pounds for a wedding, and that’s a cheap one.  I had to spend about twenty five pounds on the wedding licence and a similar amount for a barrel of beer to be given away in the rugby club.  That’s how much my wedding cost me.  Martyn Bennet took my car and turned it into a wedding carriage, with white sheets covering the rear seat and white ribbons enhancing its sleek lines.

I arranged for a decent live band to play that evening in the Lodge, unfortunately I forgot to collect the money tin and the tickets, so I couldn’t charge anyone entry, it would have to be a free function.  Mervyn, Willie and Dereck came in from London and Docker arrived from some far flung corner of the world.  It was such a fantastic day seeing all our friends dancing and celebrating well into the wee small hours.

The only complaint I would have would be for dear old Martyn Bennet, who sadly passed away recently.  Martyn, while we were getting married, sprayed my car with graffiti, using a can of shaving foam.  It was the usual ‘Just married’ stuff, he wrote all over the car, along with the obligatory collection of cans clattering behind.  Unfortunately the shaving foam must have been quite acidic and cut into the paint.  The only way to cover up the writing on the car was never ever to wash it again.

The day began with everyone, apart from the bride and her party, meeting up in the Crown Hotel in Watton.   Then we moved to the registry office. The reception at the rugby club was fantastic, it was a beautiful day, in May, and it was described as the social event of the year.  That evening we had a fantastic time in the Lodge and it was as we were leaving, to go to our new house, that I decided to pause and telephone the parents and inform them I had just got married.  After all, it was only fair for them to join in with such a happy occasion.  I remember the telephone call word for word.  It was in the tiny telephone kiosk by the main door at the Lodge.  My mother had answered the telephone.  “Hello mum,” I said.  “Hello,” she replied.  “Listen,” I said.  “I’ve just got married this morning.”   “You got married this morning?” she asked.  “Yes,” I said, hoping she could detect the happiness in my voice.  “Irene and I got married in a registry office this morning.”   “Hold on,” she said.  “Your father wants to talk to you.”

“Hello dad,” I said as I heard him take the phone, and waited for his words of wisdom and perhaps congratulations.   “Your mother says you got married in a registry office this morning?”   “Yes,” I said.  “Irene and I got married this morning in Watton registry office.”   “I see,” he said, adding.  “Please do not ever telephone this house again, do not write, or attempt to visit, you are not a member of this family anymore.”

Celtic Illumination, part 144, Manly tears.

As no one at Eastern Radar seemed to be interested in my return, I took my time coming back from Mervyns’.  I got back to Watton in the late afternoon and organised myself.  I spent far too long in the shower but believed that I should reward myself with a little luxury.  Chunkie lived up to his name in the mess, and at tea time I had a feed fit for a King, which of course at that time I didn’t know that I was.  After tea I went back to my room, I stretched out on my bed and just relaxed.  I must have dosed off, for when I realised the time I saw that the bar would be open.  

I grabbed my last bottle of grappa and went to the bar.  I was pleased to see that there was only one other person in the bar.  I sat down with Rick Stocks and enjoyed a beer or two.  Rick was the most wonderful chap.  He spoke with a received pronunciation accent.  He told wonderful stories of life in Peru and I think Brazil, where he grew up.  His father was an engineer, but a very important fellow.  In fact I think Rick’s dad held some strange title like Knight of the Outstretched Lily and Guardian of The Fish.

Rick would tell tales of how he and his brother, at the age of seven or eight would drive a car while sitting on the roof.  He told wonderful tales of long empty roads and a childhood that was thoroughly enjoyed.  We finished the grappa thus ensuring we would both have a decent night’s sleep. I remembered a statement above a door, in a remote bar high in the Dolomite mountains, where Marissa had taken me.  It was something along the lines of   ‘Drink makes you sleep, sleep encourages dreams, in dreams we meet angels, so drink your fill and cheers to the angels’.

I reported for duty the following morning and was surprised that no one actually cared that I was a few days late.  Most bizarre, but I wasn’t going to complain.  Not many of the chaps at Eastern enjoyed going to work, and I was no exception.  However many thought it strange that for a good number of days, on entering Eastern, I would have a huge smile on my face.  I never told anyone why, but they all knew that something was up.  The reason?  The guard post at Eastern Radar was almost exactly the same as my superb accommodations at Venice airport, namely the ticket collectors office at the car park.

I checked my post and saw that there was a letter from Carol.  I wondered why on earth she would be writing to me.  I couldn’t believe that she might have cared about what had happened to me, although as I read it realised that I should have known better.  My first memory of Carol was one Christmas when we had both gone home from boarding school to our house in Belfast.  It may have been my first year at Violent Hell.  It was Christmas Day and we were both outside.  I think I was trying out my new shoes and not at all interested in the other children who were whizzing around on bikes and scooters.

Carol asked me if I had learned any swear words at school and I proudly admitted that I had.  She asked me what words I had learned so I told her.  What I hadn’t expected was that she would run into the house screaming ‘Mummy, mummy, he’s swearing at me!’  She then repeated the words to mum and dad and I got another thrashing.  So I never really trusted her since then.  I had expected that she would have told the parents every slight detail of my time in Italy and I’m sure she embellished her version of the story too.  Now she had written to me and was asking for fifteen pounds to cover the cost of the electricity that we had used while in her flat.

I had put my films in to get developed and was happy to find that Irene was pleased to have me back.  I couldn’t of course show her any of the movies as Images of Karen and Marissa might be hard to explain away.  Even though they were silent movies I didn’t think I could cover that one up at all.  I seemed to be spending a lot of time with Irene so my social life changed.  I still played rugby and socialised with the guys, luckily for me Irene liked rugby, not the game; she liked the fact that the bar opened on kick off, so would quite often be squiffy by the end of the game. 

Irene, along with the other wives and girlfriends certainly knew how to have a good time.  However once, after quite a rough and brutal encounter, I found myself prostrate on the ground, unable to move.  The medics attended and declared that I had ripped all the muscles along the left side of my chest and suggested that I should be stretchered off.  I was quite surprised to hear Irene, along with the other girls, have massive fun remonstrating me and suggesting that I ‘man up’ and get back on the field of play.  I would have been happy enough getting back on my feet never mind the field.

Martyn Bennet and I were on the same shift pattern so one day Martyn approached me and suggested that we both apply for a part time job at an onion factory.  They were quite happy for us to work, as and when we could, so the flexibility appealed to us.  Martyn and I pitched up and were surprised to discover that we were the only men in the factory, well on the factory floor.

Small onions were peeled at the factory so we were shown our work station, presented with a huge crate of onions, given a knife and told to peel.  I was standing opposite Martyn and we set off.  The ladies around us were whizzing through their onions while Martyn and I were proving to be quite the ham fisted pair.  I can remember thinking that I would never succeed at this and I glanced over at Martyn who was standing, peeling onions, with tears streaming down his face.  It was so funny and most of the women were having a fine old laugh at the pair of us, who were, when it came to peeling onions quite useless.

The manager came around and had pity on us so he suggested that we decant the onions from the trailer into the crate, weighing out equal amounts and deliver the crates to the women at the work stations.  We accepted this task and told ourselves that we were weight training for rugby.  It was such a relief to spend a day lifting heavy things rather than crying your eyes out.

Celtic Illumination, part 143, Busman’s holiday

As you may imagine it was quite a relief to get into the departure lounge at Venice airport.  I was one of the first through so managed to get a comfortable seat.  You would think that I would relax and enjoy the comfort of the soft seating, a great improvement on my wooden bench, however I found myself to be most uncomfortable as there was a certain bad smell that made me quite uneasy.  I checked about my area to see if perhaps a child, or a dog, had been sick, or worse, but could see nothing that would cause such a pong.  I moved seats as the departure lounge was still quite empty.  As I sat down I could still sense the stench but I realised why the smell had followed me, because it was me.

As quick as a flash I was into the toilets and, rather than strip off and have a good scrub down at a sink, I grabbed two bars of soap from the sinks and locked myself into a cubicle.  I removed the lid of the cistern and began to give myself as good a wash as I could.  At that stage of my life my feet were quite healthy and didn’t half pong so I removed my socks and washed them too.  I waited as long as I could as the only way I could dry myself was by air drying.  My socks of course were a different matter and rather than go sock less I pulled on the damp socks and squelched my way back into the departure lounge.  I must have been away for a good forty minutes as the lounge was now full of people eager to get on the aircraft.

Eventually we boarded the aircraft and I found myself sitting by a window seat with a family stretched out to my right.  Mum, dad and the two point four children.  I was sitting next to their son, who must have been nine or ten years of age.  It was as we got airborne that I relaxed and allowed myself to believe that I was actually going back to the UK.  I smiled as I allowed the good times I had enjoyed run through my mind.  Once we levelled out the crew began to dish out in flight meals.  My meal didn’t last long and I was angry that the little boy next to me only played with his food and didn’t eat it.  I could have eaten half a dozen of those.

We landed at Gatwick and I stood by the carousel waiting for the bags to come out.  I saw a porter, with a trolley, waiting for some customers, rolling a cigarette.  I hadn’t had a smoke for a couple of days so went over to him and asked if he could spare me one.  He very generously gave me a handmade cigarette. I lit it and drew a decent lung full of cigarette smoke in.  I must have coughed for at least four minutes as my poor wee body wasn’t used to the huge hit of nicotine and gagging smoke.

I thanked the porter and took my time carefully enjoying the remainder of the cigarette however I was dying to get through and buy some tailor made ones.  I grabbed my bag and shot off and with my thirty bob Stirling went straight to a shop and bought twenty cigarettes.  I couldn’t wait to rip the cellophane of and light one up.  As I began to smoke my first real cigarette I realised that I was at Gatwick.  I had return tickets from Heathrow so I was now stuck at Gatwick.  I didn’t really know much about Gatwick, I had never been there before and I couldn’t picture its location in my mind.

I saw my porter friend pushing his bag laden trolley along and went over to him.  “How do I get out of here?” I asked, as I offered him a tailor made cigarette.  “Where do you want to go?”  “I’m not sure,” I said.  “Probably London?”  He glanced about furtively and then asked.  “Didn’t you just come in from Venice?”  “Yes,” I said.  He grabbed my bag and threw it on top of the bags and cases on his trolley.  “Follow me,” he said, looking very much like a man with a plan.  I did as he suggested and walked out to where a coach was waiting.  “This coach is for some of the people off your flight.” He explained.  “So get on, say nothing, pretend you don’t speak English or something, and it will take you to London.”

I stopped him putting my bag into the hold and took it with me onto the coach.  I found a seat near the rear and crouched down, hoping to remain out of sight.  The coach was only about one third full when it set off.  We left Gatwick and were soon on a motorway.  I hoped that if I was discovered that I wouldn’t be thrown off.  A stewardess stood up and began to address all the passengers through a microphone.  She spoke in Italian, then French and then German.  When she started to speak in English I tried to make myself as small as I possibly could, for she announced that it would cost thirty bob to travel into London.  She then, beginning at the front of the coach, worked her way along collecting money from all of the passengers.

When she got to me I smiled and explained that I had no money.  She sat down beside me and asked, “Are you the fellow who has been stuck at Venice airport for a couple of days?”  “Yes,” I smiled.  “We were wondering how long you would be stuck there,” she laughed.  “You’re quite a talking point.”  I didn’t know whether to be honoured or embarrassed. “Look,” she said.  “Just tell the driver where you want to go and he’ll drop you off.”

This of course was too good to be true so I nipped up to the driver and told him that I wanted to go to Brixton.  He assured me that he was going nowhere near Brixton, and had no intention of going there, but he would drop me off at a tube station where I could catch a tube train to Brixton. It was quite late in the evening and I knew there would be no trains to Norwich until the morning so I thought my best bet would be to stay with Mervyn and the boys who had moved from Cricklewood to Brixton.

Luckily the tricks I had learned from my summer in London with Finbar still worked and I was able to use the tube to get to Brixton and not have to pay any money.  I wandered off up the hill and got to Mervyns.  I borrowed a couple of bob and went to use the public telephone.  I rang Eastern and explained that I wasn't AWOL that I had been stuck at Venice airport for a couple of days; if they didn’t believe me they could contact the British embassy in Venice to validate my story.

It would appear that no one at Eastern could have cared less; in fact it would have appeared that they didn’t even miss me, but then they were air traffickers.  I played for the sympathy vote and explained that I was now broke and stuck in London and would probably have to spend the night on a park bench.  I was told that the weather forecast for London that night was good so I should have no problems.  I explained that I would be back the following day, if I wasn’t attacked and murdered to death in some London park when I was told oh yeah, some fellow keeps calling up for you.  Says he wants his daughter back.