Celtic Illumination, part 266, Kissing cousins.

I have to admit that I was enjoying myself, I didn’t like the job, but I was earning good money and travelling about the country.  I always had one eye open on the job market looking for something better.  While still in the air force I underwent various tests that indicated a sales environment would be the best place for me to operate, I was a people person, so that’s where I was looking.  I do remember having to spend two weeks in Taunton as it wasn’t just me who thought the estate agent I was working for was a bit of an arse.  People didn’t mind getting work from him but they didn’t want to be associated with him, it sort of made that job pure sales rather than the standard blackmail.  During the second week I gave myself another afternoon off, I know, the excess is just so extravagant, and went to Wells where my cousin Charles lived.

I hadn’t seen Charles for well over twenty years, we didn’t normally communicate, but I still felt obliged, as I was in the area, to go and visit him.  I got the shock of my life as he answered his front door as he looked exactly like my father, not the father who left the country but the one who brought me up.   Charles had run a bookshop which he had had to close, he was now working as a stone mason in Wells Cathedral, but he had kept most of his stock of books and it was lovely to find someone else, especially a family member, who was as much of a book nut as I was.  His whole house was full of books which he could never part with; each book had a special meaning to him and he knew each book inside out.  He also liked a drink and I can assure you the pair of us got absolutely hammered.

My next estate agent was in London, well Leytonstone in London.  I actually got on quite well with the estate agent, who was a young fellow, well; about my age.  He took me out on several viewings he had to complete and explained the system he used and the system other estate agents used.  He was very much a spiv but like me he wanted to be honest in his business dealings.  He would complain that the increase in house prices had nothing whatsoever to do with the actual value of a house, but greedy estate agents trying to raise the price which in turn made their percentage bigger.  In fact after one viewing, where he had to value a flat, I found the valuation figure to be so ridiculous I told him so.  To back up my claim I showed him a local newspaper from Skelmersdale where you could buy a three bedroomed house for five thousand pounds.

The next day he went to Skelmersdale and bought a row of houses.  I’m not joking and this was quite common in Skelmersdale.  I could see that there was a good chance you might make some money buying houses in Skelmersdale, but it would have to be a long term strategy and my plan was to get out of there and back to Ireland as quickly as possible.  Leytonstone is situated in the North East of London so it was close to the main A12 road which leads to Ipswich.  So rather than stay in London I went and stayed with Tony and Mary up in Shotley.  It was good fun to see the old gang again; I even called in to the Families Club for a drink.  There were one or two familiar faces but it had all changed and left me feeling like an outsider, which I was.

After London I was sent to Glasgow, I know, I felt like a snooker ball bouncing around the country.  I did enjoy it.  I remember having an argument with my mother over Glasgow.  I had telephoned her and explained that I was in Glasgow.  I knew that I had some sort of cousin in Glasgow so if she would give me his address I would contact him and say hello.  My cousin owned a couple of pubs in Glasgow and my mother was reluctant to give me his address as she feared I would meet him and get drunk and let the family down, I hadn’t the heart to tell her that both Charles and myself had done a good job of letting the family down in a pub in Wells.  Eventually I managed to get his details and contacted him.  He invited me around to his house that evening.  Certain areas of Glasgow are quite rough and run down so I was pleased to find that my cousin lived in quite a prosperous looking area.  Lovely well-proportioned houses made from red sandstone.

I felt a little out of place parking my humble company car next to his Rolls Royce but I received the warmest of welcomes, beginning with a traditional quaich.  We actually watched his wedding video, which I know you may think strange, but it was actually very good.  It had originally been shot on a cine camera but he had had it transferred to video tape.  It was strange to see all my uncles, even my dad and even the pervert uncle leaping about on the television screen.  Tradition had it that the groom and his, all male, party would go for breakfast to The Willow Tea Rooms on Sauchiehall Street in Glasgow on the morning of the wedding.  The Willow Tea Rooms, which I wasn’t aware of, was world famous as it had been designed by Charles Rennie Mackintosh and is still to this day a tourist mecca.  

After the breakfast meal the table would be cleared of dishes, ornaments and cutlery and the groom would be wrapped up in the tablecloth and carried from the tea room, at shoulder height to wherever the wedding was being held.  I have to say most of my family went up in my estimation as I watched them carry my cousin along Sauchiehall Street, at shoulder height, wrapped in a white tablecloth.  After the video and some small chat we went, with his wife, to an Indian restaurant and had a most enjoyable meal. We didn’t get roaring drunk in fact we hardly touched any booze and I was so amazed to discover that he too had been imprisoned at Violent Hell like I had been.  He hated the place too but as we spoke it was so strange to find out that he had been through almost exactly the same scrapes that I had, the same traditions, pranks and nightmares.

It was so interesting to hear first-hand about the mindless violence that surrounded the two football teams in Glasgow, there could be more than two, I’m not sure, but Celtic and Rangers are the two teams I mean.  I consider myself lucky that I have never had any interest in football whatsoever, in fact I find it most ridiculous, but when people were actually killing others over which football team they supported, I found this to be madness in the extreme.  My cousin told me that he wouldn’t allow any of his children to wear a football related scarf, or badge, or even shirt because it was basically putting a target on your back.  It was fun meeting him but I had my job to do.  The estate agent in Glasgow was a young Thatcherite.  Nothing else mattered but money, and pretence, let’s not forget about the pretence.  

I noticed in my Mensa magazine that there was to be a meeting in a Glasgow city centre pub one evening so made my way over to see what was happening.  There was nothing specific planned to happen, no multi-lingual scrabble or the like, just meet in a pub for a drink.  There must have been about twelve people there and all of them were great fun.  One fellow I remember was ex royal navy so we got on quite well.  At the time I was there, there was some huge exhibition on in Glasgow and one of the Mensa members gave me his admission card saying that I could visit the exhibition as often as I liked, during my time in Glasgow, with free access thanks to his card, and when I was leaving simply post the card back to him.  All very civilised and fun, but I knew myself, and I knew that my patience with the job was wearing thin.  I may have been a people person but I most certainly was not a blackmailer, a new job would have to be found.

Celtic Illumination, part 265, Denzil and the Horses Neck

Taunton, Somerset, not a lot more to say about it really.  Actually the old romantic in me was woken again as for me I was off to Thomas Hardy country.  In his fictional world, like The Mayor of Casterbridge, or Far From the Madding Crowd, Taunton was in Outer Wessex, and known as Toneborough.  It was an area of the country that I liked as I had spent plenty of time there at the beginning of my air force career at RAF Locking being trained to be an electronic fitter.  Despite knowing the area, and the people, my frivolous mind had me expect to find them wearing smocks, floppy hats, drawstrings around their knees, pitchforks at the ready and a long piece of straw being chewed by every man woman and beast.

The estate agent I had been sent to work for had two offices and an attitude that would make an average Irishman’s head boil at twenty paces.  The man was an insufferable snob.  He actually refused to speak to me, but I was in a tricky situation.  This was my job, I would have wanted to have turned on my heel, while raising two fingers to him and walked, but unfortunately I had no choice but to carry on.   At least with him having two offices I was able to go to the other office, the one where he wasn’t, and work from there.  I can’t remember the name of the estate agent but I do remember that it was directly opposite a pub called The Telegraph Inn which was at 58 Bridge Street, which is now an antiques shop.

I had spent a morning ringing around, setting up appointments for the remainder of the week and went over for a pint and a sandwich at lunch time.  It was quite a basic pub, and therefore suited me down to the ground.  Not very many people in, so I was able to enjoy a decent pint of beer and something to eat.  I had remained sitting at the bar and had spoken briefly with the bar staff but as I stood to leave the landlord called me over to a corner of the bar.  I followed his direction and was surprised to hear him ask if I would be returning to his establishment.  This, for someone as good looking as me is not a strange occurrence, although I hadn’t been properly propositioned since my time in Soho.  I said that I might pop in the following lunch time to which he seemed relieved, but I explained that this would very much depend on my schedule.

He then explained to me that The Telegraph Inn was the favourite pub for 40 Commando, Royal Marines.  They had just returned from a tour of duty in Northern Ireland that morning and were having a party that evening in the pub.  He didn’t think it would be very safe for someone with an accent like mine to be around drunken marines.  I took his warning as it was meant to be, a friendly word in the ear, and knew that what he was inferring was very true, I had no intention of going near the pub that evening.  I did nip over the following day at lunch time and was glad that I had stayed away for it looked as if the proverbial bomb had gone off.  The Marines had got themselves into full party mode and were having a great time when an Irish woman bottled one of them and, as they say in the bible, all hell let loose.

I noticed that some marines had come in to the bar and were probably downing the ‘hair of the dog,’ a very effective medical cure for pillow abuse.  It was when I went to the toilet to relieve myself that I felt a bit cramped as three marines came in; at least they waited until I had finished peeing before throwing me against a wall and patting me down.  I have to say they were not very effective and I wondered if I should show them the method of stop and search I had been taught at Hereford.  They began to question me and I understood their concern.  I really did, these fellows had been shot at and had bombs lobbed at them every day for the last six months so in order to take the tension out of the situation I asked them to remove my car keys from my pocket which I had attached my dog tags to.

It was something I had always done when travelling to Ireland and was a quick and easy way of identifying yourself as military without drawing too much attention to the fact.  Unlike the dog tags you will probably have seen American troops wearing we didn’t have two metal discs, we had a green and a brown disc.  Both discs had your name and number stamped on along with your blood group and religion.  I understand that one was fire resistant and one was resistant to acid so at least something to identify you would remain if the worst happened.  Then one dog tag would be removed and sent for grave registration while the other, assuming both remained, would stay with the body.  Once they had established that I was not the enemy we settled back in to the serious business of drinking.  I, despite the offer of becoming lifelong buddies, made my excuses and left.

Don’t think that I was being conscientious, not at all, my week, as I hope you would expect, had been planned to perfection.  I was taking the afternoon off to go and meet with another Royal Marine Commando, Tim Lort.  Tim had invited me to meet up with him at the base where he was stationed, I can’t tell you what it was called, not because as it was so top secret either Tim or myself would have to come around and kill you, but because I can’t remember.  It was either Yeovilton or Culdrose.  If I was a gambling man I would opt for Culdrose.  I found the base and drove up to the officer’s mess where Tim met me at the front door.  We immediately made our way to the bar and began to sink a few drinks.  Tim insisted that we drank a navy drink known as a ‘Horses Neck.’

Interestingly enough the Horses Neck was an American invention although over there is known as a Kentucky Gentleman.  It’s basically brandy and ginger and around the 1960’s replaced the Pink Gin as the British naval officers signature drink.  Ian Fleming, in one of his James Bond books, referred to the Horses Neck as ‘the drunkards drink’ despite the fact that he would consume them as if they were going out of fashion, perhaps he was telling us something.  Once again I found myself in a strange situation as I tried to buy a drink, with cash, as the bar steward explained that, “We don’t have a till sir.”  We were having a laugh and reminiscing about old times when we left and headed off to a civilian pub.  What we spoke about and did, or did not do, is no concern of yours, so keep your noses out.

You would not believe the number of people who contact me and ask for more ‘ripping yarns’ concerning Tim and the boys.  I’m afraid we have all moved on and some of us have grown up.  Even Peter Brown, on his bombing range over there in Saudi Arabia, contacts me regularly and asks me to mention specific occurrences like the best man’s speech at Tim’s wedding, where the best man recalled the time Tim ran out of a brothel in Amsterdam with a prostitute over his shoulder shouting to his boss, who was walking away, “Hey boss look what I’ve got for you!”   I checked with John Clancy, the jail bird on the Isle of Man, and neither of us could remember a best man’s speech at Tim’s wedding so that’s one of the reasons I didn’t mention it before.  Don’t worry Tim I won’t let these people drag your good name through the mud, even if some people still call you Denzil.  In fact we had a very pleasant evening as you would expect any two fine, upstanding, young, gentlemen might enjoy.  There was a lot of beer and more Horse’s Necks and the next thing I remember was someone knocking at the door of the room I was sleeping in.

I woke up and quickly checked my surroundings.  I knew Tim had booked me a room in the officer’s mess but my recollection of getting back to it was a little hazy.  It was a steward knocking at the door wanting to know if I wanted tea or coffee.  I opted for tea and like the steward looked about the empty room as he asked if I had a cup.  A cup!  I was still running through my checklist of legs, fingers, arms, eyes, nose, and teeth.  Tim came along and we prepared ourselves and went off to breakfast.   With a decent feed inside me Tim and I parted.  It was lovely to see him again and to share a few drinks and a few laughs.  As I write this I remind myself that up in the loft is the film of us all attending the court case at Valley, circa 1976, and I keep promising to get it transferred to disc.  In fact if you’ll excuse me I’ll go and do that now.

Celtic Illumination, part 264, Izzy wizzy, let’s get busy

I was so uninformed about Civvie Street it was embarrassing.  If all you have ever known is life in the armed forces then Civvie Street is a completely different world.  In the forces you did the job, there was no thought about overtime or rates of pay, the job, being completed satisfactorily and on time was the whole objective.   There was of course the basic understanding that most people were paid some sort of rate and your job was to aim as high as possible.  I suppose if I had been money orientated I should have gone to air traffic control.  Even in this day and age it is still spoken about in reverential terms.  The job is boring in the extreme and could be done by a shaved monkey.  However the one key element that prevailed in the forces and was, and is, endemic in the world of air traffic control was pretence.

Air traffic control is a career for average people who will think themselves special.  It’s the same as social workers calling themselves professional.  In fact in the air force there was a group of people from the air traffic control school in Shawbury who would visit units and examine the controllers.  Can you think of any profession where you have to be tested every couple of years, in case you have forgotten everything.  Air traffickers will tell you that this is not the case; they are very clever people who wish to maintain high professional standards.  Yeah, perhaps we could have doctors and dentists examined every couple of years to make sure they haven’t forgotten everything.  The job of air traffic was, for me, mind numbingly boring, I couldn’t stand it so there was no point in me even considering a career in air traffic.

I was lucky enough to find a job as an advertising executive in publishing.  Impressed?  Well don’t be, as I said, I had a lot to learn about Civvie Street.  I was working for a company based in Lytham Saint Anne’s, a small seaside village outside Blackpool.  I was given a company car, with telephone, and promised as much work as I could handle.  The first problem was that there were no wages; I would be employed on a self-employed basis.  No problem there, I was young fit and able man, hungry to succeed.  Oh and by the way, you have to pay for the car and telephone weekly.  So rather than start your week from zero and building on that, you started from a minus position, aiming for zero, after which you could start to earn money.

I was told that we were a publishing company working exclusively for estate agents and solicitors.  Because the housing market was growing so rapidly estate agents and solicitors wanted as much of it as they could get.  When people went into an estate agents office, or a solicitors office who dealt with property, any information given to them was presented in a lovely glossy file.  If the information was to be sent out via the postal service then the envelope would be a glossy affair.  My job was to sell advertising on these products.  So you would be given an estate agent or solicitor and could spend up to two weeks with them, although the quicker you sold the product the better it was for you.

The job would take me all over the United Kingdom something I was looking forward to, as I loved getting out and about, meeting new people and of course getting together with old friends.  I spent my first two weeks being taught the job by some fellow from Southport.  We were in a town called Mansfield.  The guy I was with was a nice chap, quite laid back.  We arrived at an estate agents office and waited to meet the fellow in charge.  I had been used to officers in the air force pretending to be posh but this guy was off the scale.  For starters he tried to make excuse after excuse not to meet us; we could talk to his assistant or his secretary.  His time really was very valuable indeed.  He actually seemed to be in pain having to talk to us and I suppose he was the first estate agent I met who began to show me that they were in the same vein as air traffickers, it was all pretence.

Estate agents have no real training or professional background; they’re sneaky little salesmen and women who pretend they are professional.   I will admit that certain estate agents do have some form of professional background such as surveying or the like, but the majority of them are salesmen and bad ones at that.  Our job was to get a list of his contacts, or who he would like being associated with.  For an estate agent we would want a local removals firm, a solicitor, a local builder, and basically anyone associated with house purchase or maintenance.  We would then go away and telephone everyone on the list saying that if they wanted to get, or to keep getting, business referrals from the estate agent they should take an advert out on his new promotional product.  The envelopes and files cost the estate agent nothing, the advertising paid for it all.

But well done to those of you who have seen through the veil of smoke and the wall of mirrors.  What I was doing was not sales, I wasn’t really an advertising or publishing executive, what I was involved in was blackmail.  Once again, successful sales people will tell me that I don’t understand what is going on, that this is business.  I see, so, for me to say to someone if you want more business from this fellow you will give me money, is business.  Why did I have an image of Robert De Niro in my head when I typed that, it probably is like something you would have seen in the gangster movie Goodfellas.  I could see that I was not going to fit in with this job and I hadn’t even finished my training.

Being thick headed and in a bit of a rut I decided to give it a go anyway.  My first estate agent was in a Scottish town called, Irvine.  It was going to be interesting for a number of reasons.  I had my sharp suits, blue briefcase and my lovely little car and telephone, so I looked the part.  Only problem was that I had a limited amount of money.  I had a choice, I could book four nights in a bed and breakfast joint and not eat for the week, apart from breakfast, or I could sleep in the car and eat.  I opted for the sleeping in the car routine and was surprised that I was actually going to use my military survival skills for real.  Irvine was on the coast so I was able to find a small car park surrounded by sand dunes where I would park up every evening and not be annoyed by passing traffic.

It was a tough week but I was determined to get through it.  I have to admit that the estate agent was a very nice man indeed; in fact of all the estate agents I have met; only two could be considered to be real human beings and this fellow was one.  We got on well together, had a laugh and I sold the whole publication in one week.  The company were pleased and I was pleased.  I even have to admit that I went over to Prestwick where there were a large air traffic set up, the Scottish Air Traffic Control Centre.  I knew half a dozen of the guys there and managed to link up with some of them who shared a house.  I spent one night on their couch and was able to have a decent scrub at a bathroom sink rather than a field shower in a car park with a bottle of water. 

It was an interesting week but I had managed to get through it and earn some money.  The next week I could afford bed and breakfast and I could eat too.   My next estate agent was in Taunton in Somerset, the other end of the country, I was quite happy with that, not because of Taunton but because a very good friend of mine, Tim Lort, was working close by, I was looking forward to meeting up with him, I only hoped my liver could stand it.

Celtic Illumination, part 263, All in a mess.

I went back to Shotley and stayed with Tony and his wife.  Tony and I had become really good friends and it was nice to be able to sit and chat knowing that Tony had no ulterior motive in any of the answers or advice he gave me.  Despite the fact that Tony was a very successful businessman with the standard big house, a couple of cars, the six berth boat, the flying every Sunday, not to mention the speedboat in the front garden, I wasn’t motivated by money.  There were no socialist beliefs that underlined this approach to life; in fact I suppose like most people connected to the armed forces we were all conservative, with a small ‘c’.  I knew that I wanted to do something that interested me.

I suppose there was a bit more to it than that.  I felt that if I could find a job that interested me, where I could help people, then I would become good at it and theoretically make a decent or comfortable living.  All I had to do was find that one job.  I had collected all my mail that had been sent to my married quarter in Shotley.  With each letter that I opened I could see that I wasn’t going to start from a level position.  I think it was Cawoods, a coal merchant in Ipswich, who had taken me to the small claims court for a fifty pound cheque that had bounced.   This gave me my first county court judgement against me, after that the letters just became more red and more frequent.  I think I ended up with about ten country court judgements against me.  Today I wouldn’t give something like that a second thought but then, I can assure you, I was terrified. Personal financial propriety was something the air force had instilled in all of us and I was not just embarrassed and ashamed but terrified that the situation would go against me in my search for work.  I was very angry as well, as the situation hadn’t really come about because of something I had done or not done.  The worst episode was that we had placed most of our furniture in storage waiting for our house purchase to go through.  As that bill hadn’t been paid they auctioned off my furniture and then took me to the small claims court for the outstanding balance.  I was certainly finding out that when you are at the bottom there are not very many people who offer you help, but there are a huge number who are quite willing to add to your misery.  I left Ipswich and drove towards Liverpool.

I had been officially out of the air force just under a week and I had less than nothing, apart from my attitude, which was that I was capable of doing absolutely anything, all I needed was a small break to get me going.  Irene, thank God, was a fine strong woman who had, as an act of caution, put our names on a council housing list months previously.  We were to be given a council house in a town called Skelmersdale.   When Liverpool began to demolish its slum areas, it built a new town called Skelmersdale, and moved everyone out of the slums in Liverpool to Skelmersdale.  Unfortunately I hated Skelmersdale, although I have to say I was never sure if I actually hated Skelmersdale or if I hated myself for living there.  A benefit culture seemed to prevail over the place; many people seemed to believe that they were owed a living, that the state had a duty to look after them. 

Please don’t think that I was being boorish or snobbish, I wasn’t, but the ethos instilled in us in the armed forces was that you worked for what you wanted and you would be paid what you were worth.  I had no problem with someone ill, or incapable of work, or looking after themselves, that as a caring society we had a duty to look after them.  Of course it would be a few years before I understood that society didn’t actually care about anything and of course we still don’t.  If you don’t believe me just switch on your television.  Of the hundred or so stations available one will be showing a programme about Kim Kardashian.  This is a woman who leaked her own pornographic video tape and manipulated the media to become super rich.  In one way I say well done.  During the advert break you will probably see an advert for some charity trying to bring clean drinking water to an area in Africa.   And don’t get me wrong, I’m not picking on Kim Kardashian, for example some footballer was just signed for over eighty million pounds, and children are dying needlessly every minute of every day.

Anyway, there’s no point in me ranting on about the stupidly of society, I had my own problems to deal with.  Irene may have got us a council house but we had no money, no income, no job, no furniture.  As you may imagine my stress levels were off the scale.  The only thing I could think of doing was to telephone a friend.  I called Louis Henry, the SWO’s man from mountain rescue in Valley.  Louis and I had stayed friends throughout my time in the air force.  He still maintained that I had saved his life on two occasions and that he would forever be in my debt.  Louis had made good progress in the air force; in fact he was now the Station Warrant Officer at RAF Leeming in Yorkshire.  Louis was a good friend and so there was no embarrassment for me when we spoke.  I told him that I had a three bedroomed council house but that was it.  I had no furniture, absolutely nothing.  Louis told me to measure the rooms and call him back.

The following morning it wasn’t just me who was surprised but all my neighbours were quite surprised to see the SWO’s working party turn up at my house in two, three ton, lorries.  First of all they went in with the carpets, all cut to size and labelled for which room they were destined, and then they completely furnished the whole house.  I’m not joking, from beds and chairs to knives, forks and spoons Louis had stripped stores at Leeming and by early afternoon sent his team back to Leeming.  But that wasn’t the end of it for Louis then insisted that we all, that’s me, Irene and the three children go back to Leeming with him as he had booked three rooms in the Sergeants mess for us and we were to enjoy a long weekend courtesy of the Sergeant mess.

On the Friday afternoon I found myself standing at the bar in the Sergeants mess at Leeming.  I was with three Warrant Officers, Louis the Station Warrant Officer, the head cook and the head policeman at Leeming.  We were all Irish so were drinking Irish whiskey, it was Tollymore Dew and it was the first time I had tasted it.  It was very nice and became a favourite of mine after that.  The round of drinks was quite simple as it was four double Tolly’s.  We were having fun when I realised that it was my turn.  I asked the steward to serve four more drinks and reached into my pocket to get some money when the Warrant Officer policeman went totally spare on me.  ‘How dare you!’ he said, to me.  ‘You are a guest in this mess, so please do not try to insult us by paying for drinks.  Put your filthy money away.’

That evening someone came in to the bar and asked if anyone had children staying in the mess as they were dragging mattresses around the corridor.  Louis had booked three rooms, one for Irene and myself, one for Jane and one for Gerard and James.  Jane didn’t like being on her own in a strange place so the two boys had dragged her mattress into their room do that she could sleep with them.  We were well looked after that weekend and apart from the break it was nice to know that I still had some decent friends knocking about.  In fact so many strings had been pulled that weekend that the children were taken up the road to Catterrick where they were driven about in tanks.  Late on the Monday Louis drove us back to Skelmersdale and I knew that it was all up to me now.  We always boasted in the armed forces that if we ever found ourselves out of work we would do any job to survive.  I wasn’t happy finding myself in such a situation and I wondered if indeed I would do any job to survive.  The one thought that was foremost in my mind was that advert from the Mensa magazine stating, ‘If you’re so clever, why aren’t you rich?’.  Civvy Street, I hoped, was in for a bit of a shock.

Celtic Illumination, part 262, The end of the line.

Well; it had to come, my last day in the air force, plus one.  It was the day after my thirtieth birthday, I had to report to Station Headquarters at RAF Wattisham at nine o clock in the morning and extend my adult service by one day.  I was beginning to think most civilians were pretty useless but my reception by the air force made me think that the civilians had some pretty serious competition.  First of all no one knew why I was there, then, when someone finally worked out why I was there, despite me repeatedly telling them, they wanted to know where my uniform was.  Apart from the humiliation of people asking me what I had been in jail for, which I hadn’t, I was embarrassed at the unprofessionalism of the air force.

People have an image of the air force being a professional service, when in fact it’s a wonder any aircraft ever get airborne at all.  Most multi million pound aircraft are held together with bodge tape and para cord, and I’m not joking.  It’s a combination of the engineer’s ingenuity and the pilot’s professionalism that keep an aircraft airborne.  It had been bad enough in station headquarters and I was not looking forward to going back in to air traffic control.  I knew that the mindless idiot Joe, I can march, Pearson would have a field day with me, and I wasn’t wrong.  When he asked me what I had been in jail for, I told him that I had been in possession of an illegal eighteenth birthday.  The one thing I do remember about Wattisham and Joe Pearson was on my very first day there I had glanced at the first aid book, where any incident requiring first aid in the work place would be recorded.  One of the earliest entries in the book stated that the recipient was Joe Pearson and the medication was fifty thousand volts.   I still smile when I think of that and actually think it may have done him some good.

Eventually people began to leave me alone in the corner with my cup of tea.  Now that they had stopped asking me why I had been in jail I could relax and think about who actually was in jail, or at least on his way there.  Graham.  Luckily I was only held by the police for a brief interview and then released.  Ginny was distraught, Phillip Howard was nowhere to be found, as you might expect from a member of the British aristocracy.   It had taken a day or two but eventually I got the full story and it all came about because of the council house tenants wishing to exercise their right to buy and purchase their council house.  At that time in the UK it was pretty standard for anyone wanting to buy a house to get a mortgage.   Normally the buyer would stump up ten percent of the total value of the house as a deposit and the other ninety percent would be covered by the mortgage.  The only drawback was that the maximum amount you could borrow, as a mortgage, would be three times your salary.

Because greed was so rampant and the increase in house prices became ludicrous, the base calculator increased, it went from three times the highest earner plus the other earner, to five times the highest earner, out of a couple, plus the others salary.  Even so, sometimes five plus one would not be enough to buy a house.  These were working class people doing normal working class jobs.  So if I remember correctly the average council house was approximately one hundred and twenty thousand pounds.  That would mean the prospective purchaser would need twelve thousand as a deposit, and to borrow as a mortgage one hundred and eight thousand pounds.  This would mean that the main wage earner would have to earn at least thirty six thousand a year.  The average salary was around the twenty thousand mark so most people were outside the existing parameters before they even made their initial enquiry.

That was until Graham came along.  He was not pleased seeing so many people wanting to buy yet unable to, so he decided to shift the balance.  Had this been an altruistic motive I may have been impressed but unfortunately it was pure greed that motivated Graham.  Graham would ask the prospective purchaser to supply him with at least one sheet of headed notepaper from their place of work.  Graham would now type a letter on the headed paper stating that the person in question earned a certain amount of money every year, which of course meant they could now qualify for their mortgage.  The letter along with completed paperwork was now submitted to the local manager of the building society along with a fifty pound note.  She knew all about the scam but as her bonus was based on the amount of business she attracted to her branch she like Graham was motivated by greed.

Even the solicitors who would do the conveyancing knew it was a scam, I think the only person who knew nothing about it was me.  As mortgage interest rates began to increase, meaning the amount someone had to pay out each month increased; people eventually began to default on their mortgages.  Because the building society in Wallingford had so many defaults they were investigated and arrests were made.  Phillip Howard, got his father to bring in his Queens Council mates and get him a slap on the back on the wrists, which is quite funny because if you Google him you will see that the little shit presents himself as a business consultant now.  Graham was not so lucky, he got six months in Brixton prison.  He took it well as I wrote to him to try and cheer him up.  He seemed to be on good form as he had been given a job in the prison library, although I shuddered when he announced that he had made some new chums and had a few ideas for us when he got out.

Ginny was grateful that I contacted her as all her other mates had abandoned her and wouldn’t speak to her because of the shame.  Poor Ginny, she had enough to contend with just being with Graham.  I remember one night Ginny was out with her girl fiends in a wine bar in Wallingford, Graham and I had gone to bed.  I slept up in the attic room, Graham and the children were on the middle floor. One of the children began to cry and rather than get out of bed Graham began to telephone around the pubs and bars in Wallingford, looking for Ginny so that she could come home and see to the children.  I got out of bed and attended to the children as Graham lay in his bed shouting at the shadows on the ceiling.

So here I was, my final day in the air force and already a couple of careers had hit the wall and were over and done with.  I was happy as I looked about and listened as I wasn’t a part of it anymore and I knew my time was up.   It had been a laugh, well; most of it, and I had learned a lot, all I could hope for now is that I could put what I had learned to good use.  I arranged to meet Tom in a local pub for lunch and we shared a few beers and had a laugh.  I came back on to camp and decided not to go back to air traffic control.  Joe Pearson would try to create trouble for me but I couldn’t have cared less.  I went to station headquarters and asked for my papers.  The chief clerk had come out from his office and was dealing with me himself.  He sat typing my discharge papers as I glanced at my personnel file. The only day while in the air force that you could actually look at your file and your assessments.

It was so disheartening to see that for most of my career I had been lied to by spineless air traffickers.  I felt quite sad that I had allowed these people to mess me about as much as they had, but I suppose I had in turn given as good as I had taken.  The chief clerk placed my demob papers in a tacky little blue plastic folder and handed it to me.  I open it and looked at the paperwork.  “This is all wrong,” I said, as I glanced over the paperwork.  The Chief Clerk and I had both taken and both passed the O Level economics course over one weekend.  It wasn’t mentioned on my papers as were none of my education qualifications or even my award on the nineteen eighty five New Year’s Honours list.  “This is bollocks!” I said, handing him back the paperwork.  “I thought it wasn’t right,” he said, passing me back the documents.  I could see he had no intention of changing anything.

My one thought was of my cow of a sister Carol.  When she graduated from Trinity in Dublin she had achieved the highest marks ever recorded in the university and at a special award ceremony had been given a certificate to mark the occasion.  Carol, took the document, read it and then dropped it into the fire stating, ‘I don’t need fancy pieces of paper.’  It must have been the only time I ever agreed with my sister in my life, for I dropped my demob folder on the Chief Clerks desk and told him to stick them up his arse.  I left station headquarters, I left Wattisham and I left the air force.  I was quite angry with them but told myself that perhaps one day I would sit down and write a wee story about them and show them how they really are.  I smiled to myself; can you imagine it, me writing stuff?   I drove away and tried to look forward to the evening; it was a special evening for me for Tony had arranged strippers and beer, a fitting end to a glittering career.

Celtic Illumination, part 261, Happy Christmas.

Sorry about this.  I knew I would not have the time yesterday, to write my blog and it looks like I will not have any time today either, so;  here’s a short story I wrote some time ago.  I hope it gives you a smile.  Oh, and if you have read it before then read it again, it will do you good, and yes, there will be questions.  Normal service will resume tomorrow.  Happy Christmas.  Himself.

Par For The Course

“Rupert!” snapped Bunnie, who by now had opened every window

possible along the balcony and was returning to the table where she had

left her coat, handbag and dearest friend, Nellie, or Fenella if you hadn’t

been to prep school together.

Rupert, standing with his feet so close together that he could have

been a Royal Naval Button boy, melted back into the real world. He

walked himself over towards Bunnie, who spoke at him.

“Rupert I want you to shoot down to that little flower shop in the

village and get something to freshen up the air in here.”

Rupert smiled, but it was one of those blank smiles. He needed a

little more.

“I’ll go,” offered Fenella, knowing there was a good chance that

Rupert might return with an aerosol.

“Yes,” agreed Bunnie, “Take some money from the till.”

“How much?”

“Fifty should see to it.”

 “Fine!”

Rupert adopted the position; the Royal Navy didn’t know what it

was missing. But Rupert did. He turned as Harper O Neill strode

through the door. One arm pushed and held the door open while the

other, firmly wrapped around a girl, hoisted her into the clubhouse. They

exchanged words, smiled, laughed, then parted; she behind the shuttered

bar while Harper straightened himself, then strolled across the room.

“Hello Spud,” he beamed, while stretching himself and pushing his

arms out either side, clawing at the air, like a bear in a tee shirt. He was

claiming his patch, without rubbing himself against all the corners and

pissing on the tree stumps. The alpha male of the East Middlesex golf

club, or so he liked to think.

“Hello Harper,” answered Rupert.

“Why do you call him Spud?” asked Bunnie. “Why don’t you use

his proper name?”

“Spud is his proper name, isn’t it? Spud!”

“Yes, but why?” Bunnie hated having to ask a question twice.

“Because I caught him doing something disgusting with a potato

when we were at Marlborough.”

Bunnie blushed, so did Rupert. Fenella saved the day.

“Bunnie,” she gasped, as she crept across the floor as if trying to

set a land speed record for running while crouched.

 “Whatever’s the matter?”

“There’s no money in the till, well there is, but there’s only coins.

All the notes have gone.”

“What do you mean gone?”

“I mean there’s none there. You know. Even that little pink purse

is missing. Someone’s taken it all and…”

One of the steel roller shutters, that protected the bar, rammed

upward, then another and finally the third.

“Hunter and Rupert will you please make sure that the tables and

chairs are laid out correctly.”

“I’ll get the flowers,” offered Fenella. “I’ll use my own money.”

“No,” said Bunnie. “You stay with me. I’ll sort this money

situation out.”

“Why don’t the both of you go for the flowers?” suggested Harper.

Had he not sighed while talking, his suggestion may have been seen as

being more diplomatic. “Let’s wait for the club sec to arrive and he can

sort out the old finances?”

“Strike while the iron’s hot Mister O Neill!”

“Yes, that’s all very well, but it’s the club sec who’s supposed to

deal with matter’s like this.”

“Indeed Mister O Neill, but my husband, The Major, had the

honour to be club captain here the first day these links opened and I’ve

served this establishment ever since. I do know something about

procedure and people and how to deal with them. Especially these sort.”

“But…”

Bunnie held up her right hand. “I’ll have no more said on the

matter. Mister O Neill will you go and ask the four members of staff to

report to me please.”

Bunnie shuffled herself well back into the seat; it was like the old

cinematic gunfighter finding his spot in a corner, but less sawdust.

“Nellie I want you to take notes, just in case we have to hand this

over to the police.”

“The police?”

“Well yes. These people cannot be allowed to think they can steal

their way through life.”

“Be a dear and start on the tables please,” said Bunnie. Rupert

launched himself into action, and then stopped, but Bunnie was already

five steps ahead of him. “In a circle dear, in a circle.” Bunnie emphasised

her words by drawing an imaginary circle in the air with the forefinger of

her right hand. Rupert got the message and smiled.

“I must tell you,” hissed Fenella. “I saw one of the girls putting

money in her pocket.”

“Which one?”

“Her back pocket.”

 “No Nellie. Which girl?”

“Oh! I’m not really sure. I only saw her from behind, she was

bending over, but she was wearing blue jeans and put the money in her

back pocket.”

With that three of the girls came out from behind the bar and

walked over towards Bunnie. Each of the girls had changed and was now

wearing a white blouse and a black skirt, regulation staff uniform.

Bunnie would have to wait and see if the fourth girl wore jeans. Bunnie

sighed as the forth girl rolled through the bar door, because she wasn’t

wearing jeans, she was wearing Harper. They were wrapped around each

other, giggling and kissing and tickling.

“Mister O Neill! Is your wife attending the function this evening?”

asked Bunnie, in the same way that an archer loosed off an arrow at their

target.

“Who knows,” answered Harper, with a shrug of his shoulders. He

released the girl, as if she were a bowling ball, before strutting his way

over to Rupert.

“I’ll get straight to the point,” began Bunnie, but someone moving

about outside took her attention. She kept her sight fixed on the tiny gap

between the grounds man’s garage and the ladies changing rooms. She

was sure she had seen someone, and if she had, that is where he or she

would pop out. ”Right,” began Bunnie. “Some money is missing from

the bar till.” Bunnie didn’t bother looking at the four members of staff,

which she normally would have done to gauge their reactions, she was

convinced that suspect number one was lurking somewhere outside. “Did

any of you take the money?”

Bunnie kept her gaze fixed on the spot outside which worried

Fenella. The four staff whispered and nattered among themselves.

“It’s quite simple really,” announced Bunnie. “One of you has

stolen some money and I am going to unearth the culprit.” Bunnie

glanced at Fenella to make sure she was taking notes.

“Stop thief!!!” roared Bunnie, as she stood and pointed at the man

who had emerged by the ladies changing room. “Harper! “ she shrieked,

while jabbing her finger towards the man, as if she was willing the

hounds to a fox.

Harper raced out the door and made his way to the front of the club

while the staff and Fenella got as close to the windows as possible to see

him corner his quarry.

”Well done Bunnie,” shrieked Fenella, while clapping her hands

together like a seal at the circus.

“You girls get back to work,” barked Bunnie, triumphantly.

“Oh Bunnie that was marvellous. How did you know he would be

there, and Harper, oh, it’s all just too exciting!”

Bunnie sat herself down again and smoothed out her skirt.

 “We do have certain rules Nellie, here at the East Middlesex. No

sports shoes, no jeans and no tee shirts with slogans on.”

“Well spotted Bunnie,” hailed Fenella. “I wouldn’t have thought to

look for those.”

“And of course there’s the other obvious difference my dear.”

“What’s that?” asked Fenella, who found that she couldn’t stop

staring at the entrance door because she had seen figures pass by the

frosted glass windows and knew that Harper would be entering any

second now with his quarry.

“He’s black!” stated Bunnie.

“Is he?” asked Fenella, who was actually staring at the man, who

seemed to be laughing and joking with Harper. “Oh yes. I see what you

mean.”

“Call the police Nellie!” sighed Bunnie, as Harper and the man

drew near. “Nine, nine, nine.”

They stopped.

“Eh...” began Harper, but Bunnie held up her hand as if she were

on traffic duty at a busy crossroads.

“Tell them we have apprehended a dangerous thief and would

appreciate some assistance. If you mention my name we should get a

favourable response.”

 “But...” insisted Harper, who again found himself cut short by

Bunnie, but this time with a stare that superman would have been proud

of.

“Thank you Mister O Neill. Please leave this to me. Now, my

man. Some money has gone missing from the bar till and I want you to

return it to me now.”

“Misses Warren, this is Felix Forrest,” explained Harper, horribly

out of turn.

“I don’t care who he is Mister O Neill, if he returns the money he

has stolen from our bar till I shall of course ask the police to treat him

leniently.”

“On their way,” called Fenella, as she walked back from the public

telephone booth.

“Felix Forrest is with the PGA tour. He’s ranked number four in

the world and has come to present the awards this evening,” announced

Harper, quite factually.

“But he’s not supposed to be here until tea-time and he’s not

supposed to be …”

“Be what?” asked Felix, who already knew the answer.

“You’re early!” accused Bunnie.

“Mister Forrest is an American and when he was told tea-time,

thought we meant afternoon tea.” Harper seemed to be enjoying the

situation but noticed that Felix was making his way towards the door. He

was also talking on his mobile telephone and seemed to be losing some of

the coolness he had maintained while being addressed by Bunnie.

“What’s he doing now?” asked Bunnie.

“Probably calling the police on you,” said Harper, with a smirk that

told Bunnie exactly what he thought of her.

“Oh look!” said Fenella, while pointing toward the flashing blue

lights that could be seen through the tall manicured hedge that bordered

the golf club.

“Mister Forrest!” called Bunnie, who could see that he was about

to step through the door.

Forrest stopped.

“You’re not supposed to be here until after six o clock this

evening,” Bunnie had emphasised ‘this evening’. Americans knew

nothing about etiquette.

Neither it seems did the members of the local constabulary who at

that moment burst through the door of the clubhouse. Three burley, male,

police officers, one holding his truncheon thingy, plus one female officer

with a large slavering Alsatian which, the moment it saw Forrest, reacted

as if fifty thousand volts was passing along its lead.

Forrest froze to the spot.

“Is this him?” asked one of the male officers, who, grabbed Forrest

by his right wrist and in one flowing movement, had secured both of

Forrest’s wrists behind him in a pair of handcuffs made from the finest

Sheffield steel. Forrest’s mobile phone spun to the floor and was then

trampled by an enormous black boot.

“Would you mind taking that dog out of here!” snapped Bunnie,

who could see that someone, in authority, would have to take over the

situation.

The female officer seemed to ignore Bunnie but gradually reigned

in the dog, calmed it down and coaxed it from the room. Rupert appeared

to be the only person in the room who didn’t want the dog to leave.

“Who’s the senior man?” boomed Bunnie, trying to be heard above

the dog, which although now outside was still howling and snapping.

Bunnie hoped it had seen a rabbit in the car park and had not taken a

fancy to another club member.

“I am madam,” admitted the officer who had handcuffed Forrest,

and who with a nod of his head had the two other male officers position

themselves behind Forrest and await instructions.

“Can I have a word please officer?”

“It’s Sergeant mam,”

“Very good Sergeant, if you wouldn’t mind.” Bunnie indicated the

seat beside her.

 “Take these off,” insisted Forrest, at which Harper began to walk

over adding, “Yes. It’s all a mistake. He…”

Harper stopped dead in his tracks as the policeman with the

truncheon had now raised it and was growling. “Stand back! Stand

back!”

Forrest pulled himself away from the officers and turned to face

them.

“Take these cuffs off me!” he yelled, while experiencing his first

ever, illegal, rugby tackle.

“Steady on,” called Harper, who went as close as he dared to the

ruck.

Bunnie was standing, indicating to the Sergeant that he should

remain seated, hoping that the noise levels would recede and praying that

she could begin to organise things properly when Ginny Duffield, in a

lovely pink woollen two-piece, came through the door, screaming.

Ginny’s husband was the club treasurer. Her normally perfectly styled

hair was tousled. The strap on her left shoe was loose and flapping about

and the nylon above was in shreds. Ginny clasped a large handbag to her

chest. Two dark, uneven, lines of mascara ran down each side of her face

indicating that she had been crying

Ginny stopped and turned to her left, screamed, stopped again, then

turned to her right. Screamed, then stopped. Ginny, for no apparent

reason and with a huge first step, almost clawing at the air with her left

foot as if she was digging spuds, began to run again but ran straight into

the three men wrestling on the floor and found herself skittering over

bodies while her bag glided across the carpet ahead of her, like a curling

stone on course for the house.

Bunnie sat herself back down while the Sergeant stood.

“This is all a terrible mistake,” announced Harper, making his way

towards the Sergeant. “That man is no criminal, he’s actually Felix

Forrest, the fourth best golfer in the world who has come here to present

some awards this evening.”

“You know I think he’s right Searg,” said the officer with the

truncheon, who was holding Forrest off the floor by his shoulders so that

he could get a good look at him.

Bunnie thought that the situation had calmed sufficiently for her to

intervene. She stood and was about to ask the police Sergeant to sit when

Ginny, who by now had managed to stand, was stamping on the spot

screaming and pointing at her handbag.

“Ginny!” shouted Bunnie, who knew that this woman needed

snapping out of whatever was affecting her.

Harper moved over and held Ginny by her shoulders. He shook her

gently, then brought her in to his chest and wrapped his arms around her.

Ginny sobbed and was coughing and spluttering with all the emotion she

was experiencing.

“What’s the matter Ginny?” asked Harper, who from the way he

held and spoke to her, suggested that this was not the first time they had

been this close.

“The police…!” Sobbed Ginny, who tried to speak between the

gulps of air she was taking. “After me...!” Ginny was pointing randomly

around the clubhouse with much of what she said being unintelligible.

“And I’ve got Charlie,” sobbed Ginny, who completely disintegrated as

the policeman with the truncheon was now twisting her left arm behind

her back and snapping on one end of a pair of cuffs.

“I’m arresting you for the possession of a class A drug madam,”

said the policeman, in such a matter of fact way that it’s meaning was

completely lost on Ginny. “You do not have to say anything. But it may

harm your defence if you do not ……….."

Ginny began to sob so loudly that the policeman couldn’t be heard.

Harper didn’t know whether to offer to help Ginny or Felix. Fenella

knew that she had to get to Bunnie; she would know what to do. Bunnie

had always said Ginny had too much money for an accountant’s wife.

And Rupert. Rupert was enjoying the way the seagulls hovered then

seemed to bounce off the roof of the garages.

“Aggh!” screamed Fenella, “A rat!”

Most people followed to where she was pointing. Surprisingly it

was Rupert who sprang into action. A long handled plastic broom had

been left propped against a chair. Rupert collected it and made his way to

the area Fenella pointed at. Ginny’s bag moved and as Rupert raised the

broom as high as he could it was Ginny who uttered a scream so terrible

that he halted his swing and brought his attention to Ginny.

“It’s Charlie. It’s Charlie!” she sobbed, before slumping against

the policeman who had arrested her.

Staggering out from the large Gucci bag was a tiny Chihuahua. Its

ears were down, its tail was between its legs, it’s tiny little body shook. It

looked like a half starved naked sailor on a Friday night.

“Oh you poor little thing,” called Fenella, who immediately went

towards it.

Harper had managed to get a chair under Ginny, who, even with

her delicate white wrists secured by bracelets she would never dream of

buying, held her hands out for her Charlie to be delivered to her.

Fenella brought the dog over to her and stood and sighed as Ginny

held and hugged Charlie.

Rupert felt a bit daft standing there, in the middle of the clubhouse

with a blue plastic broom over his head, so he lowered it. He would have

collected Ginny’s bag for her but the policeman who had arrested her had

picked it up and was scrimmaging about inside. The Sergeant had been

talking into the electric broach on his shoulder, while the third policeman

seemed to be quite comfortable as he rested on Felix with his right knee

firmly placed in the centre of Felix’s back.

“I take it Charlie is the dog’s name?” asked the Sergeant, to Ginny,

who seemed to be settling down.

“Of course it is you stupid man!” snapped Ginny, who didn’t really

seem to be that interested in anything other than the dog.

“I see the bitch is better,” whispered Bunnie, as Fenella drew up

alongside her.

“I thought it was a boy dog?” replied Fenella.

“Who’s talking about the dog,” sighed Bunnie, who nudged

Fenella and indicated that she should turn and watch, as the policeman

emptied the contents of Ginny’s bag onto a table. The usual collection of

keys, purse, compact, perfume and tat scattered over the table but the one

item that stood out was a tiny pink purse.

“Golly!” said Rupert, stepping forward and trying to be helpful as

always. “The money from the bar till.”

Rupert held the tiny pink purse up as if he were posing for the

press.

“I demand that you release me,” said Felix, who had been waiting

for his opportunity. The policeman came off Felix’s back and lifted him

to his feet. Felix moved what was left of his mobile phone around with

his right toe. It could have been a deceased hedgehog at the side of a busy road; all that was missing were the flies.

“Give him a seat Jones,” said the Sergeant, to which the policeman

responded by guiding Felix into the nearest chair.

It was then that Bunnie noticed the four staff members, all behind

the bar and all sniggering at the commotion that had unfolded before

them.

“Why have you got this purse?” asked the Sergeant, who had

opened the purse, removed the money and was counting it.

“My husband is the club treasurer. He was warned that fake notes

were in circulation and he asked me to collect the money from the till this

morning, take them to him at his place of work, where he could check

them and then return the float to the till before the bar opened.”

“So there has been no robbery?”

Apart from the police most people were staring at the floor, except

for Rupert who was watching the seagulls again.

“And Mister Forrest?”

“A misunderstanding Sergeant,” stated Bunnie, who was glad that

the female police officer had come back into the clubhouse, minus friend.

“We’ve got a priority shout Searg,” she said, indicating her radio.

“De-arrest these two,” ordered the Sergeant, at which the two

other policemen launched into some verbal tirade like magicians with

their hocus-pocus. “And please madam,” said the Sergeant, leaning in to

Bunnie, perhaps so that he didn’t have to raise his voice or perhaps to

emphasise his words, or maybe both. “If you need our services in the

future please make sure of your facts before you call us.”

They left. Their sirens diminished as the silence in the clubhouse

grew, that is until the door slammed.

“I say,” hissed Bunnie, who was secretly pleased that Mister

Forrest had left the building.

“I need a drink,” called Ginny, towards the staff, one of whom

responded by jabbing a glass under the optic that held the gin bottle.

“I think you should go home and have a rest,” suggested Bunnie.

“You’ve been through a lot my dear and it’s a bit early to be getting

squiffy.”

“I’ll just have this and go,” explained Ginny, who had made her

way to the bar.

“Yes but we don’t allow dogs in the clubhouse my dear”

Ginny, while collecting her things wondered if Bunnie was

insulting her or simply quoting the club rulebook. She smiled at the

members of staff who she gave the little pink purse to before regaining

her composure and making her exit.

“Nellie, I need you to get on the phone,”

“Why, what’s up?”

“We need to get a replacement chappie for this evening to present

the prizes.”

“You don’t think anyone’s going to come here after the way you

treated Felix?” asked Harper, who found Rupert agreeing with him.

“Felix Forrest’s phone is broken Mister O Neill. If we can get hold

of these PGA people before he gets back to their headquarters we might

be able to have a replacement sent before Felix tells his side of the story.”

“I see,” said Harper, impressed with Bunnie’s conniving.

“But what happens if we get another. You know?” asked Fenella.

“Good point,” said Bunnie, to the proverbial spanner that was still,

in her opinion in mid-air, but most definitely heading for the works.

“I know,” said Rupert, who raced over to a side table where there

was collection of magazines where he rummaged.

“Here!” he announced, coming back towards the group. “An

article about this year’s PGA tour. It’s got a list of all the players; it’s

even got their pictures and a bit about them.”

Bunnie inspected the magazine.

“Well done Rupert. We must see about getting you on the

committee.”

Nellie took the magazine and went off to the telephone. Things

were looking up.

 “Now gentlemen,” said Bunnie, happy that her ship was once again

on course; all she needed now was a bit of wind. “Let’s get these tables

organised.”

Harper and Rupert finished off arranging the tables. The four staff

furnished them, arranged the chairs and even managed to pretend that

nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Fenella returned, beaming a

huge smile.

“And?” asked Bunnie.

”No problem,” squealed Fenella. “ I explained that there was some

mix up and we needed a replacement. So they’re sending us Martin

Maguire.”

“Who?”

“Martin Maguire. I believe he’s number seven in the ratings.

Everybody else above him is busy.”

Fenella pointed at his photograph and Bunnie smiled. There would

be no mistakes this time. No spanner hurtling towards her perfect works.

Fenella handed over the magazine to Bunnie.

“I’ll shoot off now and get those flowers Bunnie.”

“Fine. You do that, Nellie old girl,” answered Bunnie, who had

found her reading glasses and was focusing on the blurb beside the

photograph of Mister Maguire.

Fenella put on her jacket, collected her handbag and was about to

ask if there was anything else she could do, when she noticed that Bunnie

seemed to be in a state of shock.

“Oh dear. Bunnie, what’s wrong? He’s not black.”

“No Nellie, he isn’t.” Bunnie placed down the magazine on the

table and pointed to a line of print. “It’s much worse than that. He’s

Irish.”

The poster that used to be displayed in many English boarding houses

that stated, No Blacks, No Dogs, No Irish, prompted this story.