You'd think he's have known better, being a Grandfather

It's been a long time since we've had a story about my Dad isn't it?

And thinking about it, the last one wasn't hugely cheery was it? Popular, helpful to some, but not cheery by any means.

But these are better, these two are funnier - Well, I think they are anyway, but you might want to keep in mind that the people involved were 'of a different time' where political correctness was just a glimmer in some well-meaning politician's eye - They're not meant to offend, and if they do, I'm sorry.  He wouldn't be sorry, he'd tell you to 'Stop being so bloody sensitive!' and look at you funny - But like I said, different time.

They happened a number of years ago in Germany, where my Dad did his National Service, as described in more detail HERE (Warning, contains mild bloodshed, bodily injury and shenanigens)

He travelled to Germany at least once a year, with a bunch of reprobates who had served with the RAF both during and after WWII in the same area for both RAF Transport and Bomber Commands - Actually, that's a lie, most of them were ex-RAF, but at least one was ex-Luftwaffe - It's a long story.  But in general, if you imagine the patrons of the Cantina at Mos Eisley from Star Wars, but give them all whispy grey hair, you won't go far wrong.

-oOo-

The first, and possibly most offensive story concerns an outing, either on a cable car, or a funicular railway (The exact details of his stories often wavered with each telling).

There were thirteen people on this particular excusion, and they were busily queueing for their turn on the conveyance in question, when one of my Dad's colleagues turned to him and asked,

'Freddo, how long before our go, do you think?'

'No idea,' Dad looked at the length of the queue and saw that it wasn't moving very fast, 'fifteen or twenty minutes at least.'

'My feet hurt.'

'We've only just got here!'

'I know, but even so.' There was a silence that lasted as long as it took for the queue to shuffle forward a few feet. 'Do you know how much it is?'

'No, not exactly, I think it's five euros.'

'That seems expensive, Can you remember when it was marks, before the euro? I preferred that.  At least we still use pounds.'

'Yeah, pounds, lovely.' He tried to sound just disinterested enough to stop the old fellah talking, it didn't work.

'Is this five euros?' He shoved out a wrinkled hand that was full of change, 'It's all I've got.'

My Dad counted it and confirmed that there was more than enough, but said, 'Look, why don't you just go to the front and check the prices?'

Which is exactly what the old chap did.  He wandered with his walking stick to the front of the queue, making it plain that he wasn't intending to push in, studied the board and can back with a grin on his face.

'It's six euros.'

'Oh, right, you've still got enough though.'

'That's seventy-eight euros for all of us.'

'Yep.'

'But there's an offer on that will only cost us thirty-six euros!'

'Really?' (Now my Dad liked a bargain, so this interested him greatly)

'Yes, it says twelve plus one. thirty-six euros.  You can speak German, what does "behinderte" mean?'

His heart sank, 'It means disabled. That's the price for disabled people.'

'Well, can't we pretend?'

'To be disabled? Don't you think that's a bit dishonest?'

'But we're in Germany.' when my Dad looked at him blankly, he carried on, 'They're the bad guys.'

'Were! They were the bad guys, a long time ago. They've been nothing but kind to us since we've been here.'

'But, it saves us forty-two euros?' 

Which in fairness was all the convincing that was required, and why five minutes later my Dad was posing as the carer (Because he could speak German) of a group of people who displayed the entire panoply of disabilities that they could muster.  There were at least three completely fictional false legs, a couple of blind chaps who were suspiciously looking at people when they talked, and one chap who took his performance so seriously that he wet himself.  Although that might have been purely co-incidental.

There was a bit of too-ing and fro-ing with the girl in the booth who didn't speak any English, but finally they were let through at the reduced price - And almost all of them made it into the carriage before they started whooping and waving their walking sticks in the air shouting 'In your face Fritz!' and suchlike.

-oOo-

The second and last story (for today) will have more of an impact if you're a trekker.  It involves some knowledge of the episode 'The Trouble with Tribbles.' You should go and watch it now and see which bit you think I'm going to reference.  It also goes to show that old people can also be complete arses, just like everybody else.

Back?

Good.

This bit is set in Cologne, a German city that suffered heavy bombing by the RAF in 1942-1943, to the point where it's still a sore subject/item of embarrasment with combatants and their descendents from both sides.

It was during another visit (or possibly the same visit, I'm not hugely sure) that the group were sat in a small bar after an excursion.  the ladies had retired for the evening and the chaps were enjoying multiple steins of German beer (or foreign muck, as most of them termed it, not that this effected the amount they were drinking.) They were in what you might politely call 'High Spirits', when a middle-aged local man left his group of friends, wandered over and started a conversation.

(I won't do the comedy German Allo-Allo type accent - I'm walking a fine enogh line as it is) 

'Hallo! I couldn't help overhear that you're English!'

There was a generally positive murmur.

'I hope you are all enjoying yourselves?' (Now I figure that this guy knew exactly what was coming, so I have no sympathy for him)

'It's very nice, the people have been very friendly.' replied one of the group, my Dad was busily trying to fit his entire face into his beer, as he also knew what was coming.

'Nice? Yes, what do you think about our beautiful architecture?'

(Here it comes, be ready)

One of the assembled group was from No. 5 Bomber Group, who had taken part in the '1,000-bomber attack' on Cologne itself.  He replied, 'Well, it looks a damn sight better from 20,000 feet through a bombsite.'

As I understand it, this was when the first table got flipped over. and the 'ruckus' ensued.  So if you can recall the bar-fight scene from 'The Trouble with Tribbles', you should replace the Klingons with Octogenarian combat-trained, but very rusty, ex-RAF bruisers and the crew of the Enterprise with Middle-aged German types whose parents had probably lived through the bombing. (I was going to compare the Germans to the Klingons, but... When you think about it, they were really the injured party)

If you've not seen it, it's here:

The fight didn't last very long, but it did involve a number of cuts and bruises on both sides.  In fact, the only reason I found out about it at all was because my dear old Dad, who was still just about in his 70's at the time, had a huge black-eye when he came back to the UK.

I listened to his story and asked 'Well, who won?'

He looked at me as if to say 'I'm not even going to dignify that with an answer.' and then smiled one of the biggest smiles that I'd ever seen and said 'Fancy a pint?'

I didn't help in the slightest... Well, not much anyway.

If you were reading the Blog this time last year, you may have read a post about a project that the MicroDandy had to do for school, all about Britain in the Second World War.

The post was pretty much a list of all the stories that my Dad told us that weren't completely 'appropriate' for a seven year old's school project.  I thought at least a couple of you would be interested in reading what actually did make it into the project.

Or not...

Either way...

Here it is.

-oOo-

My Grandad in the RAF

In 1947 my Grandad Fred, who was 18 years old and training to be an electrician was conscripted into the Royal Air Force.

This meant that he had to leave his job and travel to RAF Innsworth in Gloucestershire to receive Basic Training in being a member of the armed forces.

After eight weeks of training where he learned, amongst other things, how to fire different types of gun and throw hand grenades.  He was one of four men in his group chosen to go to Northern Europe.

He sailed from Harwich to The Hook of Holland on the HMT SS Vienna (Picture below).

He then travelled, by train, up through Holland and Germany, to Hamburg and then to Flensburg, the most northern town in Germany and its Capital at the end of the Second World War, to complete his aircrew training, which meant that he was qualified to be a member of the crew of an aeroplane.

After completing his training he was made a Sergeant (Signals) and assigned to a part of the RAF called Headquarters 46 Group - Transport Command.

Signaller Brevet (Badge)

Sergeant's Stripes (or 'Tapes')

During the next four years he crewed transport aircraft all over the world, visiting places such as Cyprus, Hong Kong, Iraq, Libya, Malaysia and Malta.

One of the largest operations that he took part in was the Berlin Airlift.  Between 1948 and 1949 the Russian army blockaded the city of Berlin in Germany.  This meant that food and fuel could not get in to the people there. So the RAF and the United States Air Force used hundreds of aeroplanes to deliver thousands of tons of supplies every day.

At the busiest times, around 1,500 aeroplanes were landing every day in Berlin, that’s one every minute! The pilots of these aeroplanes had a very difficult job, flying at 150 Miles per Hour, sometimes only 150 meters apart.  Sometimes an aeroplane would crash onto the runway, if this happened it had to be pushed out of the way very quickly by a bulldozer so that the next one could land.

My Grandad remembers that there were times he had to work for 36 hours in a row flying in Avro Yorks and Douglas Dakotas loaded with Coal, Oil, Food and Mail to make sure that the supplies got delivered in time.  Sometimes, on the return trip, his aeroplane was loaded with some of the 11,000 children who were being evacuated out of Berlin to live with families in the West.

Whilst stationed at RAF Jurby on the Isle of Man he was one of the crew that flew training aircraft that were used to train new Navigators, these are the people who tell the Pilot where the aeroplane is and how to get to where he needs to go.

And one of his jobs when stationed at RAF Wunstorf  in Germany was to help fly Mosquito Fighter/Bombers back to RAF Broughton in Wales.  These Mosquitoes had been sold to the Post Office (now Royal Mail) and had been converted to carry mail.

I am really proud of my Grandad and the things he did in the RAF.

-oOo-

On the next few pages are some facts about the aeroplanes that my Grandad flew in and what he thought about them.

Handley Page HP67 Hastings

The HP67 Hastings was a transport aircraft used by the RAF between 1948 and 1977.

At the time it was introduced, it was the largest transport aircraft designed specifically for the RAF.

Its first and most famous job was to transport coal and other cargo into Berlin in Germany during the Berlin Airlift.


My Grandad Says:

‘The lights that told you whether the wheels were down properly when you were landing often didn’t come on… Usually because the bulb had popped, we used to keep a bag of spare bulbs, just in case’

-oOo-

Avro Type 685 York C1

The Avro York was a transport aircraft used by the RAF between 1944 and 1964.

The York was often kitted out as the personal aircraft of VIPs

Famous York included:

‘Ascalon’ The personal aircraft and flying conference room of Winston Churchill, Prime Minister of Great Britain.

‘Endeavour’ belonging to HRH The Duke of Gloucester.

‘MW102’ Louis Mountbatten, 1st Earl Mountbatten of Burma and Viceroy of India had his York specially painted light, duck egg green to try and keep it cool in the Indian sun.


My Grandad Says:

‘Once, when we were landing a York at an airfield in Germany, one of the tyres burst… It was pretty scary!’

-oOo-

Douglas C47 Skytrain (Dakota)

The C47 was called the Dakota by the RAF.  It got its name from the acronym "DACoTA" for Douglas Aircraft Company Transport Aircraft.

It was used by over 100 Air Forces all around the world including the RAF and the German Luftwaffe at the same time!

The Dakota first flew in 1941, but the RAF still uses the Dakota now, 70 years later, as a training aircraft for the Battle of Britain Memorial Flight.


My Grandad Says:

‘The Dakota was really noisy and uncomfortable, there was a big pipe around the doorway of the cockpit that carried air to the engines, and it made some very strange noises!’

-oOo-

Airspeed AS10 Oxford

The Oxford was mainly used for training aircrew (Bombardiers, Gunners, Navigators and Wireless and Camera Operators).  It was also used as an Air Ambulance.

They were first produced in 1937 and more than 8,500 were made.

On the 5th January 1941, the famous aviatrix Amy Johnson disappeared in an Oxford, never to be seen again!


My Grandad Says:

‘We used the Oxfords as flying taxis.  If someone was stuck at an airbase and needed to be somewhere else quickly, they’d usually go in an Oxford’

-oOo-

Avro Anson

The Anson was mostly used as a training aircraft by the RAF between 1936 and 1968.

In June 1940, a flight of three Coastal Command Anson were attacked by nine Messerschmitt Bf 109s of the German Luftwaffe.  The Anson shot down two and damaged a third before the dogfight ended with no British losses.

In September 1940, two training Anson of the Royal Australian Air Force collided in mid-air and got stuck together.  The two aircraft landed safely, still stuck together!


My Grandad Says:

‘If I could own any of the aeroplanes that I used to fly in, it would be an Anson’

-oOo-

de Havilland DH98 Mosquito

The Mosquito was a Fast Fighter/Bomber made almost completely of wood!

The engines used in the Mosquito were designed in Derby by Rolls-Royce.

It could fly at over 400 Miles per Hour!


My Grandad Says:

‘When we were flying Mosquitos back to Britain over the English Channel we would sometimes fly really low over the waves and try to scare the captains of fishing boats, but don’t tell anybody!’

-oOo-

All the MicroDandy's own work... Gawd's honest truth.  I'm not one of those parents that does their kids' homework for them so as they look more impressive.

Cross my heart, hope to... to... Erm, suddenly I don't feel so good...

*Expires theatrically, stage left*

Whilst not 'Entirely' dishonourable... Still a kind of disharge.

I think I'll start April with a story about my dear old Dad.

Those of you who actually knew him will realise that when it comes down to it, he was a bit of a rogue (Not rouge, as I originally wrote there - Although in fairness, I cannot actually guarantee that he didn't repeatedly rub himself on an innocent young lady's cheek in some far-flung foreign land in the middle of the last century.)

As you may remember, he was a a Flight-Sergeant in the Royal Air Force in his younger days and did, like so many others, avail himself of certain 'opportunities' to supplement his meagre government income.  That would have been frowned upon by his superiors if they had ever found out.

For instance, He used to quite regularly fly between North Africa and South-east Asia (or 'Bloody Chindit Central' as he lovingly referred to it on occasion... Usually after watching Bridge on the River Kwai on a Sunday afternoon) and he set up a string of laundry services along the route.  He would collect dress shirts and suchlike from the men at whatever RAF Station he happened to land at, then take them with him to the next station where he'd set up a franchise and hand them over to one of the locals.

The honest native type would then drag the bundle to the nearest cow-dung infested river, beat them to within an inch of their lives on a nearby rock (The clothes that is, not the cows), do a bit of the old invisible mending and give them a brisk going over with a charcoal-filled flat iron before returning them to Dad on his way back.  He would then deliver them to their rightful owners, and make half a crown profit on every bundle.

Simples!

Why didn't he just employ the local population at the same place at where he picked up the laundry you may ask?  Well, he did try that once, but one of his customers found out and decided to 'Cut out the middle man' and go direct as it were - Very bad for business.

However, his business boomed, and it wasn't long before he started getting requests like, 'Here Our Kid, You going to [Insert exotic sounding place in Burma or Singapore]? Can you get me some [Insert difficult to get hold of item] whilst you're there?' Then there'd be some complicated 'nudge-nudge, wink-wink' style communication and the deal was done.

For the first three-quarters of his burgeoning business empire, his most popular (and therefore profitable) line was, believe it or not, ballpoint pens. This was closely followed by strange-smelling oriental tobacco (No... Actual tobacco) and sweets.  In fact, this new endeavour proved so popular that he gave up his interest in the laundry business and concentrated on the Del-Boy style buying and selling... One hesitates to use the word smuggling, although I don't suppose that there were a huge number of customs officials involved in any of the transactions.

Then the order came that was to take his assault on Mr Selfridge to the next level - And also see it come crashing down again.

The UK based customer had heard tell of a certain mythical beast that strode through the deserts of Egypt with gay abandon, fading into the background at the merest hint of danger and grabbing it's prey without warning, like a Northern Lass who's finally got to the front of the queue in the kebab shop.  He asked if it would be possible to hunt down one of these creatures and return it to Blighty to be displayed as a curio - What we would now call an 'Exotic Pet'

The next time that he and his crew visited the land of the Sphynx and the Pyramid, he loaded himself up with water and tinned corned beef, rolled up his trousers to the knees, tied his combat knife to a broom-handle and set off into the high desert.  It was days before he sighted his prey, basking majestically on a huge boulder, outlined by the first primordial rays of the rising sun.  As he approached, he dislodged a small rock which clattered to the ground.  The beast reared up at him and clacked its razor sharp jaws in defiance.  He raised his pole-arm and...

Actually, I can't keep this up, what actually happened was that he wandered off the base, found the first dodgy-looking Egyptian fellow he could, (Which, according to him, didn't take as long as you'd think) gave him a hessian sack and said something along the lines of 'Abdul, take-o this sack-o, fill-o with-o Chameleon-os, quick-smart, jaldi-jaldi.' (I like to think that he said it in a Captain Jack sparrow voice, but he probably didn't)

So, some time later, a bag of incredibly angry chameleons was winging its way by military cargo plane, to the UK.  One was delivered to the original customer, others were distributed to the customer's friends and close family and the last one, the sickly looking green one, cowering at the bottom of the sack was adopted by my Father. (In fact, it's possible, if you are currently the proud owned of a captive-bred chameleon in the UK, that it is a decendent of one of these very animals) It both kept him amused during boring flights doing that 'Leg in the air, rocking backwards and forwards thing' that chameleons are so good at, and acted as an advert for his new pet supply business.

All went well, for many months until one fateful day, as my Father's plane was starting to taxi towards the runway, he stood up, patted his pocket and shouted 'Basil!' (Actually I don't know what he called his chameleon, but I imagine it was probably something like Basil, or Peverill, or Cholmondely.)  There was vexation amongst the rest of the crew, but with the judicious application of a few dead-arms and a particularly vicious Chinese-Burn, he got the pilot to park up and he ran back to the billet to fetch him.

But it was too late, by the time he got there, the next set of flight crew had already moved in, some sweaty radio operator had his stuff all over the bunk and didn't take kindly to my Dad going through it trying to find the errant colour-changer, so in a fit of spite, he lay down trying to cover as much of his own gear as he could.

And that's when he heard the crunch and felt the small, warm, damp patch creeping through his shirt.

Poor Basil... (or Peverill, or Cholmondely.)

Priorities

OK, so I'm guessing that most of you know of my Dad, be it through his shenanigans where sub-zero avian vermin are concerned, or his stories of life as a Sergeant in the RAF.

He's incredibly self-sufficient, not just for an 84 year old, but in general.  He does all of his own shopping and cleaning, goes everywhere on the bus and seldom asks anyone (especially his family) for help.  In fact, he even 'does' for an old friend of his, a bit of light housework, sorting out paperwork, making sure that his kids don't steal all of his money, that sort of thing

Anyway, he checked himself into hospital last week with stomach pains, all sorts of unpleasant things going on with his digestive system and so forth, but his GP had told him that he just had an infection that was being a bit resistant to anti-biotics or something, probably.

He spent a week in there, being poked and prodded, pumped full of hardcore antibiotics, shoved into giant magnetic doughnuts and having cameras put in places where you normally wouldn't want a camera.

when we went to pick him up, he told us that his consultant had said that was an issue with one of his 'tubes' and they'd be having him back in when everything had calmed down a bit to do something about it.

It wasn't until the next day when he pulled an 'Agent Tee' (Go and watch Men in Black 2) on us, and waited until we were in a busy shopping centre before he told us the rest of the diagnosis... He was in the late, inoperable, stages of Cancer and his Consultant had given him 3-12 months to live.

Then he just carried on walking to the Post Office as if he hadn't just dropped the 'C-Bomb'.

Anyone who knows me in real life will attest to the fact that it's not very often that I'm rendered speechless, but on this occasion, I did not know what to say... So I told him that I didn't know what to say.  He replied that there wasn't really anything that I could say that would make any difference, so why bother?  Mrs Dandy took this opportunity to disappear off to the Vets, initially to pick some stuff up for the dog, but mainly so my Dad didn't see her burst into tears - He's a man of that generation where overt displays of emotion embarrass him greatly.

We walked for a while, in silence, until I broke the tension by asking if there was anything they could do, he shook his head.  I asked about Chemo, he reminded that Chemo was still technically 'something' and he'd already told me that there was 'nothing' that could be done.

After we'd driven him back home, we sat with him for a couple of hours, whilst he stared at the TV.   I can honestly say that this was the first time I'd ever noticed how fragile he was.  He'd never been a big guy, never topped 5'9" or been particularly muscular - But he's my Dad, so by that virtue a dyed in the wool Superhero, his power was never to leap buildings in a single bound, he was always clever enough to find a way round.  He couldn't fly, but he did tell some stories about when he used to.  His one superpower was to be unerringly right about almost everything.

He would say things that started with 'If I were you...' and 'You know, if you do that...' and invariably ended with me ignoring him, making a hash of everything and asking to borrow more money.  He warned me about women who were destined to tear my heart out, credit cards that would put me into debt and houses that would drain my very soul - I ignored them all. I'll bet you can count how many World's Greatest Son mugs I have in the cupboard on the fingers of one foot.

(Although, I don't think my Brother has any of those either, and he's taken early retirement and is living in his hollow volcano lair in the middle of the Mediterranean - He gets up every morning and can see the sea, and an honest to goodness shipwreck out of his lounge window - I think my Dad might have impossibly high standards for what classes as a good, successful, Son.)

I told him that I'd come and visit him every other day or so, to make sure he was OK and check if he needed anything.  I mean, we only live around the corner when all's said and done, so it's not much of a stretch... And Mrs Dandy's going to do his housework and shopping.   and that makes me feel... Well, guilty if I'm honest.  He's 84, shouldn't I have been doing these things for him for a long time?

I mean, I've been thinking that he's not been long for this world for years, his memory's not what it was, his trips to the Doctor are getting more frequent and more serious, and every time I go to his house when he's not answered his phone a couple of times in a row during the day, I expect to find him cold and stiff in a heap at the bottom of his stairs, or dead in his bed.  But he never has been.

Not so far at least.

So, on reflection, I'm a terrible son, a financial and emotional burden, thoughtless, non-empathic and generally a bad sort.  Except, I'm kind of not... I have offered to help innumerable times in the past, he just looks at me askance and says 'Why? I'm perfectly capable of doing it myself.' - So many times that I stopped asking in fact. I let him ask me if he needs anything - It's usually something like 'I need a big bag of compost' or 'I want to go to PC World, but there isn't a bus that goes that way.' - Nothing too taxing, it's usually the donkey-work that he trusts me with, things that I would have to try really hard to mess up.

But he's my Dad, and doing stuff for my Dad makes me feel good - Feels like I'm paying him back for me being a bit of a disappointment.

I regularly fix his computer, buy him tinned peaches (he loves tinned peaches, they remind him of when rationing first finished I think) and provide him with Grandchildren.  But I still feel guilty, not about not doing more, but for waiting until it was confirmed that he had a terminal condition before thinking about doing it.

I've told some people (I suppose technically, I've now told quite a lot of people, what with Blogging it) and most of their reactions have been similar, you get the 'Oh, I'm really sorry!' and the 'Is there anything I can do?' - And these people are great friends and good people and they mean well and there's nothing else you can really say... But it still take all my strength not to sound all glib and answer 'Why? it wasn't your fault.' and 'Yeah, just nip back in time about a year and give me a poke so I can tell him to go to an Oncologist so he doesn't die.' - I'm practicing my 'Thank you, but no.' - But it's going to take a while I'm afraid.

(If I do see you in real life and I do say any of these things, feel free to just shake your head and walk off, whilst muttering 'Wank*r' under your breath.)

Whilst we're on the subject of reactions, my Brother initially felt guilt too, must be a family thing - He was guilty about not immediately spending however many hundreds of pounds jumping on a plane and turfing up at our Father's house only to be told by a little frail old man what a bloody idiotic waste of money it's all been, he should have waited until there was a machine that went 'Beep' involved. (He is, nonetheless, paying hundreds of pounds on a plane ticket and coming over anyway - He's just sensibly waiting until the prices go down next month... Dad will actually appreciate that, he'll be proud - We're an odd family when you get down to it.)

Mrs Dandy was pretty devastated, but has now clicked into super-efficient carer mode, doing everything possible to make life easy for him.  Especially if that means shouting at him for his own good when he fails to take sufficient care of himself in the few times a day that she's not there. Technically known as 'trying to keep busy so she doesn't think about it.' I think.

The Mini-Dandy cried, a lot - but now she does a fine job of masking her emotions so that she doesn't make anyone else feel sad... Which reminds me, I must have the 'Bottling up your emotions can make your mind snap.' Conversation with her this weekend - I guess that she's learned it from me, I'm not an obviously emotional person ('cos I'm dead hard Me...) and things usually don't hit me until everything's all over, you know, when I consider that I've got time to grieve without effecting anyone else - Yeah, because that situation happens all the time.  I guess that being your Father's Daughter isn't just trifle and pony-rides all the time.

The Micro-Dandy... I didn't get to see his reaction, because the wife told him whilst I was at work, because I didn't seem to be able to bring myself to do it.  The words that he said that were the important thing though I suppose.

'Oh... Is Dad alright, because Granddad is Dad's Dad isn't he?'

Stunned me a bit when I found out about that one, with him only being eight years old and everything.

My Dad himself... Well, I think he's doing the whole 'Stiff upper lip' thing, trying to convince us that he's jumped to the 'Acceptance' phase of the Kubler-Ross model (Yeah, you're right, there should be an umlaut over the 'u' there, but I really can't be bothered) Though I don't believe it for a second.

Every time I leave him I imagine that he goes and sits back down in his armchair and bursts into tears - I know that I probably would, but I'm not my Dad... He probably just wanders into the bathroom and shaves himself with a Bowie knife which he licks the foam off and then spits it at the dog, because that's the sort of thing that Dads do.  That's the sort of thing that my Dad does at least.

At least, he does in my head, because he's a Superhero.

My Superhero

So,  that's why I said that the Blog might get a bit sporadic from now on... Not because I can't think of anything funny, although I'll admit that it is a bit more difficult at the moment.  But because I really need to finish the book and get it published before...

Well, you know what I want to do it before...

I want him to be proud of me one last time.

Ignorance as a virtue?

I was in the pub last night, (I'll just pause for a second there to wait for all my loyal readers who have fainted in shock to regain consciousness) having a few quiet drinks with some friends of mine.  There was a lady there whom, allegedly I had never met before.  Although, you know when you get that feeling that you know someone, but can't remember where from?  I kinda got that feeling, although she denied all knowledge. I suppose, in fairness she isn't the first woman to do that, and I dare say she won't be the last.

She was the wife of a neighbour of some friends of mine from Church and I'm sure that she won't mind me saying that she is approaching retirement age.  We were discussing myriad subjects, including 70's soap opera based comedy, genealogy and how visiting sites in Germany that the RAF bombed during the war can make you feel a teensy bit guilty.

Anyway, as it so often does, because I am a ceaseless self-publicist, the conversation came around to this Blog.  Quick as a flash, the Dear Lady said 'Oh, are you a Blogger? What sort of things do you blog about?'

Now, I wasn't expecting this at all, I was expecting the much more popular 'What's a Blog?' or some derivation of it at least.  But I swallowed my surprise and brought out my phone, with the freshly printed cover that has the homepage address on it, she typed the address into her smartphone, favourited it and said 'I'll have a look at that tomorrow' (And if you are doing, welcome to the Chimping Dandy! It was a pleasure talking with you)

This got me thinking, I've been working in I.T. for nearly thirty years now, and do you know what the phrase I've heard more often than any other is? It's 'How long have you been under my desk? / Stop looking up my skirt.' Actually... That doesn't exactly capture the premise I was after... How about 'Did you mean to unplug my computer and lose all my work?' No... Not that either... Ah!... Here we are...

'Well, I don't know anything about computers!' usually said in a proud voice, followed by a laugh, as if implying that people who do know about computers are to be looked down upon and soundly mocked for being slightly effeminate and not very good at football.

Has it always been fashionable to be ignorant about things?  I don't just mean about computers, you can hear people say the same thing about their cars: 'Oh, I don't even know where the oil goes!' Guffaw-guffaw-guffaw, or mobile phones 'You put your number in for me, I've no idea how this thing works!' Haw-haw-haw, or 'Can someone load this machine-gun please? I don't even know which end to look down.' Ha-ha-Click-BANG!-sirens

Traditionally, before Women's Suffrage, when we had an Empire and the map was a resounding pink colour there were only two kinds of people who were expected not to know how to do things.  One group were people from the new colonies, because they hadn't yet been taught English, Christianity or how to use cutlery and suchlike and the other was women, because... Well... They were delicate flowers, who were to be protected at all costs, from life's little realities.  I mean some of those Ladies were apt to suffer conniptions and take to their beds for a month if they ever found out that things like sewers even existed, never mind what would happen if you suggested that they get the rods out and give it the old repetitive thrusting clungey movements.

But nowadays, we've all achieved a kind of equality, men are as good at things as women, white people and 'people of colour' are equally able and valid, disabled people can, with the correct mechanical assistance, for the most part be as active as people who have the complete unfettered use all their extremities. Yet I still have people coming up to me and saying things like 'To save a document I've typed, do I press the button with a picture of a floppy disk on it, or the one with a picture of a shredder being eaten by Godzilla with the words "Delete Document" in Flashing red letters five inches tall underneath it?'  When I answer 'Which do you think?' They think for a second and say 'I don't really know, I don't know anything about computers... Ha-ha-ha.'

Then I hit them with a shovel kept specifically for that purpose.

I've got absolutely no problem with people who don't know how to do things, no-one knows how to do everything and asking is definitely the right thing to do in that situation, but don't be proud of being ignorant, don't wear your lack of experience as a badge of honour.

Don't make out that you're too cool, or too old, or too young, or too important to know how do do something relatively simple.

It makes you sound like an idiot.

They came out of the Sun, all Dakka!-Dakka!-Dakka!

Last year, we had a note from the MicroDandy's school, saying that they were doing a project about what Britain was like after the Second World War... Rationing, National Service, stuff like that.  His first thought was to talk to his Grandfather about his experiences, what with him being alive at the time and everything - But because he is almost clinically lazy, the task of listening to his Grandfather's stories fell to me.

So one night, I trudged around to his house, notepad in hand, and asked; 'Dad, what did you do in (the years just after) the War? - The stories he told had to be quite heavily edited for their intended young audience, but I'll tell you pretty much what he told me.

(Note: Yes, this is my Pigeon Exploding Father, just so as you know what to expect.)

-oOo-

Our story starts in 1947 when he was conscripted into National Service (Which we should definitely still have in my opinion), and sent for eight weeks training at RAF Innsworth in Gloucester.

 It was here that he learned to shoot;

'We were all on the range one afternoon, taking pot shots at these targets with Browning 9mils, bloody horrible things they were, used to grab the skin between your thumb and first finger when the hammer came down, really heavy trigger too... Rubbish... Anyway, there was this clot who comes onto the range with a Sten Gun, waving it about, coming the big I Am.  Fired a couple of shots down the range and it jammed, no lubrication you see, you had to keep 'em clean, and he obviously hadn't been.  So he took the magazine out, banged it against his boot, stuck it back in and pulled the slide back, which is something you don't normally have to do, I think this might have confused him.  He fired a couple more rounds holding the barrel, not the magazine like they tell you to and, it got hot, so he moved his hand back and his fingers got caught in the ejector mechanism - took the ends of his fingers clean off, started running about the place screaming and crying and p*ssing blood everywhere.  We couldn't stop laughing long enough to help him.'

He learned to throw grenades;

'Grenadier training was a waste of bloody time, we spent days throwing de-activated Mills bombs into pits then covering our heads and counting to seven, just to make sure we could throw 'em forty feet so as not to blow ourselves up. I wouldn't have trusted half the blokes there to throw a teabag in the bin, nevermind chuck something that could blow their bloody heads off!'

How to use a parachute;

'I didn't get to jump off any of those fancy towers that you see in the documentaries.  My parachute training consisted of sitting on a bench in the back of an open truck with fifteen other blokes, driving at forty miles an hour across a bumpy field with a great bloody ape of a Sergeant kicking us all off the back at ten yard intervals.  You learned how to land properly pretty bloody quickly!'

And hand-to-hand combat;

'We shared the base with a load of bloody Rock Apes (Note: this is a derogatory term for members of the Royal Air Force Regiment, although this term wasn't in use at the time, my father never misses an opportunity to be offensive to people he considers inferior as new insults become available.) who did the guarding duties, general rule was, if you wanted to join the RAF they asked you three questions - Can you breathe through your nose? Can you spell your own name? Do you know who your Father was? - If you answered yes, you got into the RAF, if you said no, you got put in The Regiment.  I said this to one on the main gate one night as we were coming back to barracks, he didn't take kindly to it, I got some lumps that night...'

After this training was complete, he got transferred to Flensburg in Northern Germany, promoted to Sergeant, and joined Transport Command as a Radio Operator.  He spent the next few years flying all over the world. Cyprus, Hong Kong, Iraq, Libya, Malta and Malaysia were all popular destinations for him and his crew.

He also did a number of 36 hour shifts during the Berlin Airlift (Of which there is ample information on t'Internet, so I'm not going to go into the whys and wherefores of it here.) And tells many similar stories about flying cargos of coal and food and mail into Berlin, refuelling then turning around and flying back to base, but these two stick in my mind.

'We were coming in to land behind this Dakota (an American transport aircraft), we were packed in about 200 yards behind him and still about 500 feet up.  We'd just cleared the fence at Tempelhof airport when he lost control and dropped onto the deck, We'd already commited to landing and the pilot was just about to grab a handful of throttle and yank the stick back when a couple of bulldozers appeared from the side of the runway and pushed the wreckage out of the way, we just cleared it - I needed to requisition a new pair of trousers when we got back to base that afternoon.'

And;

'We'd just landed and taxied over to the hard-standing where the groundcrew were going to unload us when this Penguin (an officer with no flying experience) waddles over with a clipboard and says "Right lads, need you to stay on board while they juice you, you're taking fragile cargo back so try not to shake it about too much."  Then this truck backs up right to the cargo doors, some sheets go up and we feel the plane shaking about.  We get the all clear and take off back home.  When we landed, all these ambulances turned up and all these kids got out of the back of the plane and were whisked away.  Turns out we were transporting German evacuees.'

And as you can imagine, he had a fair old repertoire of things going wrong.

'We had a heavy landing with this York at RAF Uetersen, so heavy in fact that one of the tyres blew and we swerved off the runway and into the weeds, never had an entire aircrew simultaneously s*it themselves before, it smelled like the Elsan (Chemical toilet) had exploded!'

'There was this CO at one of the airbases we were visiting who was keeping his hours up (If you wanted to still call yourself aircrew, you had to do a certain amount of flying time every year.) when we needed to get something signed, he was just doing laps of the airfield, about 200 feet up in an Oxford, or maybe an Anson.  So we got a cuppa and went and sat outside NAAFI to wait for him to finish.  He was coming in to land when he got hit with a crosswind, our pilot had commented on it as we came in the previous day, but it caught his plane and flipped it on its side.  The tip of one of hit wings just clipped the ground and he cartwheeled across the runway and bust into flames, poor bugger never stood a chance...'

But his favourite story, about his favourite plane, which he never tired of telling, and never tired of embellishing  as old soldiers often do, was this one.

'Towards the end of my time, the RAF had done a deal with the Post Office.  The P.O. were taking surplus Mosquito fighter-bombers, painting them red, and using them to carry mail.  Our crew got the job of flying loads of them from Germany back to the UK, then cadging a lift back and doing it all over again.  All this flying over The Channel got very boring after a while, and to make it more exciting the pilot would see how low he could fly, or how fast, or see how long he could fly on a knife edge (with the plane tipped at 90 degrees to the surface of the water) or any combination of the three.  There was this one time when the navigator spotted a fishing boat on the horizon right in front of us, so the pilot dropped us down to the deck and throttled up to about 300Mph, at the last moment, we popped up, flipped onto a knife edge and flew in between the derricks on the deck.  Then we buggered off sharpish, hoping they were too busy s*itting themselves and hadn't seen our squadron markings.'

-oOo-

Just thought I'd let you know about some of the wonderful things that people have type into Google and managed to find the Blog this month:

How much does Les Invalides weigh? - I presume they meant 'L'Hotel National des Invalides' Which is a set of museums in Paris, why anyone would want to know how much they weigh is beyond me I'm afraid

Post a comment on Vital Organs Blog - Nope, no idea...

And the ever popular Swing away Merrill - This is now the all-time most popular search, with seven incidents.

OK team, that's it for today, maybe there'll be more Steampunk in the mix tomorrow

Thermodynamics, it's the law!

Today's story isn't about me... It's about my dear old Dad - If anything, I like to think it goes to prove that whatever I have wrong with me, I probably got from him.

He's a young 84 year old - He's done a huge number of jobs in his long and happy life, from being in the RAF to working as an electrician on the railways and is blessed with a permanently sunny disposition (apart from the times when he's opinionated, rude and kranky)

This particular tale takes place in the (I think) 1960's and shows the healthy disregard for Health and Safety that made this country great.

-oOo-

It was summer, and hot. Hot enought that you could forget the whole frying eggs on the pavement scenario, and jump straight to the 'nylon trousers melting to your body and your conkers exploding' kind of deal.

At the time, my dear old Dad worked for British Oxygen (BOC), a company that makes and bottles all sorts of interesting gasses for industrial and medical uses. As the company name suggests, one of their biggest sellers was oxygen, liquid oxygen. This was stored in large, white tanks, you might have seen one - They're characterised by the fact that the pipes around their base tend to have a thick layer of frost on them.

One lunchtime, he and his cronies decided to go out into the yard to eat their 'snap' as was the colloquial word for a packed lunch at the time. Finding the sun to be a little warm and direct for their tender, British hides, they found respite in the shade of the big liquid oxygen tank. Halfway through their lunch, one of his friends spotted a pigeon, who had obviously landed on one of the pipes and had frozen, quite solid.

My father, who still has a love of physical humour, went and found some welding gloves and broke the bird free (unfortunately leaving its feet behind) and proceeded to marvel at this wonder of accidental science, it's perfect preservation, how peaceful it looked etc. One of his gang thought that a game of football would be the order of the day until it was pointed out that this might be, in some way, disrespectful.

At that very moment, a young and pretty secretary came around the corner and started to walk across the yard. Thinking on his feet, he grabbed the bird from the aspiring Bobby Moore and cradled it in his hands.

'Awww,' He said, 'Did the little birdie fly into the big nasty tank?'

As he said this, three things happened; He stroked the bird gently, as if it were the most precious thing in the world, his friends looked at him as if he had just had a debilitating brain aneurysm, and the secretary's interest was piqued. She started to walk over, all high heels, miniskirt and bouffanted hair and said,

'What's that?'

'It's a pigeon, we think he flew into the tank and knocked himself out... Didn't you little man?'

'Awwww.' Said the girl, leaning closer.

'In fact, we've been looking after him for a while, he's about ready to be released.'

'Really? can I watch?'

'Of course, Off you go little chap, be safe!'

With that, my Dad pitched the frozed pigeon up into the air, whereupon it arced about fifteen feet then crashed down onto the concrete yard and shattered into a million shards.

It's said, that on warm nights, if you're walking past the old BOC works in Derby... You can still hear her screaming.