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Showing posts from January, 2012

Si vis pacem, para bellum

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They took away our causes; they said they were unjust. They packed away our flag; they said it’s not to trust. They mothballed our regiment; its name no longer rings Of glory or of valour or of those un-PC things. They locked away our colour in a box they’d rather toss But they can’t erase the honour of the men who bore the loss. They’re better than you’ll ever be – the ones who’d stand and fight; And face the guns and steel and smoke for nothing but the right To say and think whate’r they might; to follow their own creed; For everyone, no matter what their faith, or hue, or breed. To stand, defy whatever foe and take it on the chin; To hold, and fight, and bleed, and die. But never to give in! And now that those loyal Men at Arms have fought the worthy fight, And you and yours can live in peace to exercise your right, Forsake now not those men who bled, closed ranks for you and me. No matter what they look like now; wherever they might be. Ne’e

Knowing nothing

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Punts pulled-up for the night in Cambridge   “You think you know everything” is a phrase that runs off the ignoramus’s tongue as smoothly as “I don’t know”. Difference is that the first is  ad hominem and then usually tinged with a little puerile contempt, while the latter – which often really means “I’ve been discouraged from finding out and conditioned not to care” – lacks any inkling of apology. “I’m an ignoramus, but it’s OK ‘cos I can talk kewl in monosyllables.” Of course, the prevailing climate of anti-intellectualism doesn’t help anyone other than those who would prefer to keep the population dumbed-down, ignorant, and accordingly unquestioning and pliable. In the Middle-Ages it was easy: Hand-copied tomes and thereby literacy and education were the preserve of the moneyed or privileged few, mainly clustered around crown and mitre. They would often use their knowledge and education to lord it over and turn the public and its will to their hand. Ordinary people who knew

Hard aground!

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This morning was characterised by an icy wind which blew hail-bearing squalls far inland from the North Sea but those gung-ho enough (not I) to take a stroll on the beach at Wijk aan Zee on Friday morning encountered 19,777 deadweight tons of Aztec Maiden washing up on the shore. Running on far too little ballast, the Philippine-registered cargo ship’s high freeboard must have acted as a sail, causing her to drag her anchor. Either things happened very quickly for the crew, or they thought they had everything under control and called for help too late. No doubt the dudes with braid on their caps will figure it out but obviously, even though the plimsoll line was somewhere around the helmsman’s ears, the shrimp-rich sandbars and surf of Wijk aan Zee (that had failed to fell me and 1,400 others on New Year's Day ) just held too little water for the ship’s 7.7m draught. By mid-morning, she had stopped teetering in the waves and was hard aground – mercifully with her flat underbe

Those who Protect and Serve deserve better...

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Many years ago I was running a small (50-seater) restaurant in an area that had once been fashionable, was not exactly run-down but had since seen better days. Locals said it had “character”, which is maybe the most accurate way to describe it. Alas, that also meant the gradual influx of certain “characters”… I learned the restaurant trade from a gentleman I’d met when he was Warrant Officer in charge of the Officers’ Mess. After leaving the services (he’d paid his dues since Korea) his honed ability to clothe the iron fist in a velvet glove made him mentor to a generation of young restaurateurs. In the floor-mopping potato-peeling days that are the hospitality trade’s rite of passage from “recruit” to “newbie” (after which, as a “pathetic”, you get to clean the pots and the windows), the rule was: coffee and tea are free to policemen, paramedics, fire-fighters and servicemen: “They do enough for you when they are  not here, so when they are , you can give them a cup of tha

Excuses, excuses...

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In the Netherlands, there is a significant and politically powerful (at least they command a lot of votes and hot air) contingent on the right that firmly believes that if shops open on a Sunday, the Wrath of all Seven Heavens will be visited upon the Fourth and Fifth Generation. Then to the left, there’s a group of politically toothless socialist dinosaurs, desperately searching for a raison d’ĂȘtre since their political goals were achieved and surpassed 20 years ago. Equally out-of-touch with the realities of 21st Century 24/7 global retail commerce, they are resolutely convinced that anyone working on a Sunday (or more than three days a week for that matter) must be being “exploited” with a gun held to their heads. This in spite of independent reports from supermarket managers that their (consenting adult) part-timers were eagerly queuing for double-rate Christmas Day and New Year’s Day shifts. Money rolled in all directions and the check-out queues were twice as long as usual,

Abandoned soldiers

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The Abandoned Soldier (and his search for an appropriate permanent home) has become iconic in the struggle for the acknowledgement, recognition, respect and proper treatment of soldiers who carry wounds (such as PTSD ) on the inside. To view the original 2007 episode of Newsnight  for which the sculpture was commissioned, or for more info and pictures, see The Abandoned Soldier Project , as well as the links at the base of this page. – Picture by courtesy of  Mark Christmas I’ve often heard it said that the measure of “civilization” of a society can be seen in how it treats its children and seniors – and I daresay there’s much truth in that – but what about its old soldiers? For example, the first time I visited Paris as a teenager on a study trip, I was interested to notice on busses and in the Metro that, just as in many European cities, the easily accessible places near the doors are reserved (or must be relinquished) for the elderly or pr

Nieuwjaarsduik 2012

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Beverwijk, 09h30, CET: It’s alive! The undersigned extracts himself from beneath a feather duvet to face a New Year, not too much the worse for moderate “nightcaps” of KWV 10-Year-Old Brandy. I’d slept well! 10h30: New Year’s Skype with family in South Africa. It’s overcast outside and while the sun tries gamely to break through occasionally, a stiff sou’ wester is driving straight up the English Channel and contemptuously disregarding the Netherlands as it heads for Norway and beyond. It has the flags starched and drives clouds ahead of it, so each minute of sunshine is paid for by a wet squall, with interest. Now at this stage, I would usually go back to that feather duvet. For years now, I’ve been half threatening to take part in a nieuwjaarsduik . For those uninitiated in Dutch culture, the concept demands some explanation: When 17 million people live cheek-by-jowl in a country roughly the size of Wales or New Jersey (with two-thirds of them crammed into the