What with life, work, orchids, churches and the suchlike with which I fill my life, I really wan't aware of just how much sport there was about today.
And coming after what could only be described as a cold day, cold enough to warrent wearing a coat or jumper and think about having the heating on in the afternoon.
We start the day with bacon; left over bacon, and just enough for butties for us both. And then what? I am oddly feeling out of sorts, and it took a lot of persuasion by Jools to get me in the garden to help report plants and put new ones in the garden.
As a heavy drizzle began to fall, we sit on the chairs under the kitchen window, eating ice cream, it was just about warm enough to be able to do this and feel comfortable.
After lunch of jam on toast an a huge bowl of strawberries, raspberries and blueberries and cream, I settled down to switch between Le Tour and the Wimbledon Men's Final and watch the whole of the British Grand Prix. So much sport, and all of it worth watching. Lewis Hamilton won the Grand Prix, Andy Murray won the tennis. Again, and the cycling at an exciting mountain finish.
We have chorizo hash for dinner, before settling down to watch the final of the Euros. Outside there is a fine end to a dreary day, there is golden light in the sky, but it is all too late. 0-0 at half time, and plenty to play for.
See y'all on Friday.
Sunday, 10 July 2016
Saturday 9th July 2016
As I have said most weeks, I wait in anticipation through the week, in the hope that the weekend will be warm and sunny and so suitable for photography. And most weekends there is some time that would be able to go out and go to snap orchids, butterflies or churches or trains. So, once the weekend is upon us, I check the weather on the BBC, and find, or found this weekend, that the weather gods were not going to be kind to me, as it was going to be both dull and windy. The twin banes of macro photography.
And so the thought was what to do with the whole day. To start with, I needed a hair cut, the infamous barnet mangle. After coffee and breakfast, Jools drops me in Cherrytree so I can wait for the shop to open. Now that the owner, Alan, has retired there is much less sarcasm and abuse int he shop. Now, some might say that this is a good thing, but it don't feel quite the same to me.
Also waiting outside is Jools' nephew, George, now 21 years old and a builder's labourer, and worldwide traveller, even more so than me! Being young and sensible, we works hard, saves money and rarely drinks. So, he is planning on a multi-month trip to India and The Philippines over the winter. I never thought of doing such things when I was his age!
Once I had been in the chair and had me head shorn and eyebrows trimmed, Jools was back and so we could go back home to decide what to do with the day. On the radio was Huey, so we potter around, with the radio on and the morning passed by until it was time for lunch. Last week I had bought the stinkiest cheese imaginable; called Isle of Avalon, and it was robust to say the least, but with crackers and a bottle of Proper Job, it went down very well indeed.
After lunch, flicking through the TV channels, I find the final hour of the Tour de France on, now it has been some years since I watched it, so settled down with Mulder on my lap as they powered their way up a mountain, then Chris Froome broke free as the crested the climb and accelerated to win by 13 seconds.
Outside it is bright, but with the wind in the north, feels much colder than it really is. Jools works in the garden, I begin to prepare dinner.
We get a call from Mike; are we free at half six? As they want to scatter Nan's ashes. We are, so at half six we are parked outside Connaught Park, and walking up the hillside on which it is located, to find the rest of the family.
We find them the other side of an ornamental pond, and once George has arrived, the family take a handful of Nan and let the wind take her. Nan loved flowers, nature and ice cream, and the park was probably the best place in town for her. Once Nan was gone, Mike opens a bottle of Prosecco so we can toast her memory. And the deed is done, and Nan is gone forever.
We drive back home and I fire up the fryer to cook chips, and then the rings on the cooker to griddle the steaks and the garlic mushrooms. We have another bottle of Prosecco to share as we eat. As we eat the Pet Shop Boys are on the radio, playing their favourite tunes for our entertainment. What could be better?
And that is done. As so is Saturday; not much else to do other than to go to bed and listen to the wind in the trees and Bob's flagpole rattling in the breeze.
And so the thought was what to do with the whole day. To start with, I needed a hair cut, the infamous barnet mangle. After coffee and breakfast, Jools drops me in Cherrytree so I can wait for the shop to open. Now that the owner, Alan, has retired there is much less sarcasm and abuse int he shop. Now, some might say that this is a good thing, but it don't feel quite the same to me.
Also waiting outside is Jools' nephew, George, now 21 years old and a builder's labourer, and worldwide traveller, even more so than me! Being young and sensible, we works hard, saves money and rarely drinks. So, he is planning on a multi-month trip to India and The Philippines over the winter. I never thought of doing such things when I was his age!Once I had been in the chair and had me head shorn and eyebrows trimmed, Jools was back and so we could go back home to decide what to do with the day. On the radio was Huey, so we potter around, with the radio on and the morning passed by until it was time for lunch. Last week I had bought the stinkiest cheese imaginable; called Isle of Avalon, and it was robust to say the least, but with crackers and a bottle of Proper Job, it went down very well indeed.
After lunch, flicking through the TV channels, I find the final hour of the Tour de France on, now it has been some years since I watched it, so settled down with Mulder on my lap as they powered their way up a mountain, then Chris Froome broke free as the crested the climb and accelerated to win by 13 seconds.Outside it is bright, but with the wind in the north, feels much colder than it really is. Jools works in the garden, I begin to prepare dinner.
We get a call from Mike; are we free at half six? As they want to scatter Nan's ashes. We are, so at half six we are parked outside Connaught Park, and walking up the hillside on which it is located, to find the rest of the family.
We find them the other side of an ornamental pond, and once George has arrived, the family take a handful of Nan and let the wind take her. Nan loved flowers, nature and ice cream, and the park was probably the best place in town for her. Once Nan was gone, Mike opens a bottle of Prosecco so we can toast her memory. And the deed is done, and Nan is gone forever.
We drive back home and I fire up the fryer to cook chips, and then the rings on the cooker to griddle the steaks and the garlic mushrooms. We have another bottle of Prosecco to share as we eat. As we eat the Pet Shop Boys are on the radio, playing their favourite tunes for our entertainment. What could be better?
And that is done. As so is Saturday; not much else to do other than to go to bed and listen to the wind in the trees and Bob's flagpole rattling in the breeze.
Saturday, 9 July 2016
Should we stay or should we go now?
So, where are we with the Leave thing with the Eu and all that?
Well, each day that goes by is the most dramatic in politics since the day previously.
So, in summary:
1. The Conservative Party have now whittled down the list of six nominees to just two, as Michael Gove was eliminated on Thursday; the two remaining are Teresa May (someone who would like to abolish the Human Rights Act and withdraw Britain from the European Contention on Human Rights) and Andrea Leadsom who thinks stuff like benefits and maternity leave should be abolished. Its like pick a twat competition. However, Mrs Leadsom in her first major interview after getting the nod, made a huge error of judgement in an interview with The Times. Called it the opposite of what she said. So the Time released the transcript, and she still complained. So The Times released the audio of the interview, and it was just as reported. Darn those journalists with their facts. It is likely that no matter what fact emerge, what mistakes are made, it will probably be a close run thing, as Mrs Leadsom is all for full Brexit, as soon as possible, although that in itself does not specify a timeframe.
2. There is a coup in the Labour Party. I can't begin to explain why the MPs of the Party chose this particular moment to try to remover Jeremy Corbyn, but they have, and its all a huge mess. As Corbyn is refusing to resign, and over 100,000 people joined the party in the last two weeks to mostly support him. In the end its a case of who owns the party; the members or the MPs. Nasty and stupid the lot of them, with the Tories in chaos, Labour is even worse and it is embarrassing and stupid.
3. Three separate cases have been brought asking Government lawyers to confirm the consitutional process of triggering an Article 50 notification. This is not necessarily to stop the process, but the clarify whether the PM alone can do the triggering or an Act of Parliament is needed. The first clause of the article makes clear it has to be in line with the leaving country's constitution. I have helped crowd-fund one of these letters, and will also help if the next step is needed in issuing proceedings. We shall see. If an Act is needed, then no matter who is elected as Tory Leader and so PM< they would have to either annul the 1972 act, or get a new act through both Houses; this is just about impossible, and so would probably trigger an election, which in itself would require an annulling of the fixed term act passed during the coalition.
4. As before, Britain is still a full member of the EU and subject to all the rights that that membership entails. However, the pound is plunging in value against almost all other currencies; Britian lost it's much valued triple A rating, and is now just AA. This will mean that borrowing becomes much more expensive for the Government. And as The Chancellor abandoned any hope of balancing Britain's budget at all, not just in 2020, times are going to be tough, with more austerity, more cuts, and cuts in corporation tax to encourage more companies to stay here, thus reducing further income for the State.
Britain has become, in under two weeks, a laughing stock; its people voting for economic suicide (and when this is pointed out, are still demanding it). A 500% rise in hate crimes, racial abuse and other nasty far right incidents, making it even more embarrassing to be British. The vote will probably mean the end of the Union, with Scotland looking to have a 2nd independence vote, it will probably annul the Good Friday Agreement which has brought near peace to Northern Ireland.
Well, each day that goes by is the most dramatic in politics since the day previously.
So, in summary:
1. The Conservative Party have now whittled down the list of six nominees to just two, as Michael Gove was eliminated on Thursday; the two remaining are Teresa May (someone who would like to abolish the Human Rights Act and withdraw Britain from the European Contention on Human Rights) and Andrea Leadsom who thinks stuff like benefits and maternity leave should be abolished. Its like pick a twat competition. However, Mrs Leadsom in her first major interview after getting the nod, made a huge error of judgement in an interview with The Times. Called it the opposite of what she said. So the Time released the transcript, and she still complained. So The Times released the audio of the interview, and it was just as reported. Darn those journalists with their facts. It is likely that no matter what fact emerge, what mistakes are made, it will probably be a close run thing, as Mrs Leadsom is all for full Brexit, as soon as possible, although that in itself does not specify a timeframe.
2. There is a coup in the Labour Party. I can't begin to explain why the MPs of the Party chose this particular moment to try to remover Jeremy Corbyn, but they have, and its all a huge mess. As Corbyn is refusing to resign, and over 100,000 people joined the party in the last two weeks to mostly support him. In the end its a case of who owns the party; the members or the MPs. Nasty and stupid the lot of them, with the Tories in chaos, Labour is even worse and it is embarrassing and stupid.
3. Three separate cases have been brought asking Government lawyers to confirm the consitutional process of triggering an Article 50 notification. This is not necessarily to stop the process, but the clarify whether the PM alone can do the triggering or an Act of Parliament is needed. The first clause of the article makes clear it has to be in line with the leaving country's constitution. I have helped crowd-fund one of these letters, and will also help if the next step is needed in issuing proceedings. We shall see. If an Act is needed, then no matter who is elected as Tory Leader and so PM< they would have to either annul the 1972 act, or get a new act through both Houses; this is just about impossible, and so would probably trigger an election, which in itself would require an annulling of the fixed term act passed during the coalition.
4. As before, Britain is still a full member of the EU and subject to all the rights that that membership entails. However, the pound is plunging in value against almost all other currencies; Britian lost it's much valued triple A rating, and is now just AA. This will mean that borrowing becomes much more expensive for the Government. And as The Chancellor abandoned any hope of balancing Britain's budget at all, not just in 2020, times are going to be tough, with more austerity, more cuts, and cuts in corporation tax to encourage more companies to stay here, thus reducing further income for the State.
Britain has become, in under two weeks, a laughing stock; its people voting for economic suicide (and when this is pointed out, are still demanding it). A 500% rise in hate crimes, racial abuse and other nasty far right incidents, making it even more embarrassing to be British. The vote will probably mean the end of the Union, with Scotland looking to have a 2nd independence vote, it will probably annul the Good Friday Agreement which has brought near peace to Northern Ireland.
Friday 8th July 2016
Is it me, or has this week like lasted for about 55 days? Or could it be the daily battles. And now I'm told I am not liked by someone. My heart bleeds. I like to think that I am not liked by some in that I put the project first, but also care for my employer. So, I'm happy with that.
I have meetings again from half seven in the morning; my fault as I arranged them and am the chairman, so only myself to blame. But at least it should bring interested parties together. I am eating breakfast during the first meeting, I hope they don't hear me munching, or the camera on the new laptop is filming me eating still in my dressing gown as I look like a slob. But then this is one of the main benefits of working from home, not having to look at people face to face.
Do you want to video-conference? Heck no, I might have to put clothes on.....
Jeez, the morning slips through my fingers, I have half an hour in which to squeeze lunch, and then into another meeting. Finally at three, I am done with meetings, but then have to write up the minutes, check them and send them out. The plan to do the final expense report is binned, and after one final call from my manager, I am done for the day. I switch off the computer, and the phone and I am done.
I watch some WheelerDealers on some out of the way channel, before getting ready for Jools to come back home, laden with shopping and we can have dinner as we listen to Steve Lamaq. And that means its the weekend.
And there is no football on TV, so we watch another old TOTP, much the same as the day before, but this one presented by Tommy "TV on the radio" Vance. Ah, 1982, those were simpler days when we knew who the good guys and bad guys were,. Mostly. And XTC were still performing for an audience.
Here is The Good OLd Days on, a real blast from the 1970s, but Terry Scott is brilliant doing his little boy act, and had us laughing.
And so with an encore of The Don, we head to bed followed by our small troupe of cats, seeing who will get the prized spot on the pillow between us.
One final word I suppose is health matters: I have not had a serious allergy attack now since the middle of March. Although I cannot say for certain I have beaten it, as apparently at the end of August they flare up again, but for the most part it is good, and great not to have to take days off work through lack of sleep and all that.
My shoulder is slightly better, and although not completely better, its not worse, so I should be happy, and so the road to health seems like a long one. But other than that, all is pretty good.
I have meetings again from half seven in the morning; my fault as I arranged them and am the chairman, so only myself to blame. But at least it should bring interested parties together. I am eating breakfast during the first meeting, I hope they don't hear me munching, or the camera on the new laptop is filming me eating still in my dressing gown as I look like a slob. But then this is one of the main benefits of working from home, not having to look at people face to face.
Do you want to video-conference? Heck no, I might have to put clothes on.....
Jeez, the morning slips through my fingers, I have half an hour in which to squeeze lunch, and then into another meeting. Finally at three, I am done with meetings, but then have to write up the minutes, check them and send them out. The plan to do the final expense report is binned, and after one final call from my manager, I am done for the day. I switch off the computer, and the phone and I am done.
I watch some WheelerDealers on some out of the way channel, before getting ready for Jools to come back home, laden with shopping and we can have dinner as we listen to Steve Lamaq. And that means its the weekend.
And there is no football on TV, so we watch another old TOTP, much the same as the day before, but this one presented by Tommy "TV on the radio" Vance. Ah, 1982, those were simpler days when we knew who the good guys and bad guys were,. Mostly. And XTC were still performing for an audience.
Here is The Good OLd Days on, a real blast from the 1970s, but Terry Scott is brilliant doing his little boy act, and had us laughing.
And so with an encore of The Don, we head to bed followed by our small troupe of cats, seeing who will get the prized spot on the pillow between us.
One final word I suppose is health matters: I have not had a serious allergy attack now since the middle of March. Although I cannot say for certain I have beaten it, as apparently at the end of August they flare up again, but for the most part it is good, and great not to have to take days off work through lack of sleep and all that.
My shoulder is slightly better, and although not completely better, its not worse, so I should be happy, and so the road to health seems like a long one. But other than that, all is pretty good.
Friday, 8 July 2016
Thursday 7th July 2016
I should be so lucky, I suppose, that after a 14 hour plus travelling day, that I should be working from home the next day, with the two second commute from one seat at the dining room table to the next. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.
I do have meetings from half seven right through until after three, but thanks to a software failure, the bulk of it is scrapped, and I can catch up on the prevuous two days missed work. And make sure all the filing is up to date, and by the end of the day, I feel more in control.
It is the typical working from home day, outside the sun shone, and yet I was trapped at the dining room table, either in phone calls, reading documents or some other such nonsense. I tell myself that after the next mail or meeting I would take five or ten minutes in the garden to take in some natural light, but of course that time never arrives. Or when it does, late in the afternoon, it has clouded over and soon enough a steady rain is falling. I see it too late to get the washing in, so I watch it get wet again.
Jools gets fish and chips on the way home, which saves the cooking and washing up of course. So we are able to sit down and re-watch John Peel's triumphant return to TOTP from early 1982, where he was able to to intoduce Theatre of Hate, Soft Cell and OMD, and be sardonic with it too.
We also spend part of the evening packing the last of the Empire Magazines, ready to be collected. Seems a waste to sell them for so little, but then the extra space would be nice. And once packed we move the 11 boxes downstairs, we just need to know when they'll be collected I suppose. And then it is the second semi final in the European Championship, France v Germany, a heavyweight game, and which should be well worth watching. Well, almost; Germany dominated the first half, but concede thansk to a controversial penalty, then a goalkeeping mistake left Germany 2-0, and there was no real response. The game petered out, and thankfully we were spared extra time, so could go to bed before ten, and get something close to eight hours sleep.
I do have meetings from half seven right through until after three, but thanks to a software failure, the bulk of it is scrapped, and I can catch up on the prevuous two days missed work. And make sure all the filing is up to date, and by the end of the day, I feel more in control.
It is the typical working from home day, outside the sun shone, and yet I was trapped at the dining room table, either in phone calls, reading documents or some other such nonsense. I tell myself that after the next mail or meeting I would take five or ten minutes in the garden to take in some natural light, but of course that time never arrives. Or when it does, late in the afternoon, it has clouded over and soon enough a steady rain is falling. I see it too late to get the washing in, so I watch it get wet again.
Jools gets fish and chips on the way home, which saves the cooking and washing up of course. So we are able to sit down and re-watch John Peel's triumphant return to TOTP from early 1982, where he was able to to intoduce Theatre of Hate, Soft Cell and OMD, and be sardonic with it too.
We also spend part of the evening packing the last of the Empire Magazines, ready to be collected. Seems a waste to sell them for so little, but then the extra space would be nice. And once packed we move the 11 boxes downstairs, we just need to know when they'll be collected I suppose. And then it is the second semi final in the European Championship, France v Germany, a heavyweight game, and which should be well worth watching. Well, almost; Germany dominated the first half, but concede thansk to a controversial penalty, then a goalkeeping mistake left Germany 2-0, and there was no real response. The game petered out, and thankfully we were spared extra time, so could go to bed before ten, and get something close to eight hours sleep.
The Jelltex Report
On Thursday 2nd January 2003, I, like all my colleagues working in the bomb dump at RAF Coltishall, reported for duty after the Christmas break. I was duty armourer, a job which involved driving around on errands, and was seen as a skive, so I was in good mood. It was the start of a new year, I had several trips planned back to the US, where I had friends in the Ozark Mountains in Arkansas, and maybe even move there if things in the RAF didn't work out.
However, soon after we all had drunk the first brew in the tea bar, I along with Dave Boxhall, we called into the Flight Sergeant's office. We were told that the RAF was planning for war, and being experienced we were selected to go out in the first wave with the aircraft; report to stores to collect kit, then go back to your rooms to pack, but from tomorrow, be prepared to deploy.
I went to stores, and found that already they were running out of supplies: just one NBC suit each, one "war-shot" respirator canister and so on, with the promise that the rest of what we needed would "be in theatre", or it would be waiting for us in Turkey or wherever we would be deploying to. Later in the coming months, I remember people having to go to stores and being given just a pair of NBC outer gloves, as that was all that was left in stock; it was a joke.
I went to the Army and Navy surplus stores in Lowestoft and spent £120 on things I knew I would need, just to be able to make life bearable, as this stuff, like head torches, washing lines and so on was not in kitting. A poor state of affairs when we get so little and yet our American friends get everything they need.
This came out of the blue for me, I mean I was well read and up with current affairs; I know that Bush was sabre-rattling, but Iraq was done up tightly, they couldn't fart without us knowing thank's to the two no-fly zones. And yet we were to prepare for war. In the media and in the House of Commons, the case was put ever stronger for war by Tony Blair, and yet I knew that plans were accelerating for us in the RAF.
Once March came round, we were told we were on "no-notice" to deploy, meaning there would be on 24 hour warning, just the call and we would have to go.
In the end, we were on notice to move for 69 days; rumours came and went as to whether we were going to deploy at all. Turns out that Turkey did not want to has NATO aircraft based on it's territory, and so was refusing all demands and offers to let our planes in. Then there was the chance that once the invasion began, we would be flown in to work from a captured Iraqi airfield. We had field training, how to use the cooking stoves, make a meal, and do some serious NBC training. It was all now very real. We did training on our very new laser-guided bombs, which we had not seen before, as deployments had been taken off us at Colt by another base, and they had done all the training with the new kit, and now we had half a day to train before we were going to war and doing this stuff for real.
And then the test kit didn't work, so it was all talked through, and we felt cheated. It would have been funny if it wasn't so serious.
Then we had to go to the Medical Centre for jabs. Jabs for anthrax.
Now, I was quite well read, and coming after the the attack in Washington where people had died from exposure to spores, I asked questions, and when the doctor would not give us straight answers, and then revealed that the full course would take 6 months until we had full protection, and we were due to fly out in two days; we all refused to take the jabs.
In the end, Turkey refused to allow us to use their bases, this was because they were waging their own war against the Kurds, and rightly or wrongly were concerned that such a war might make a Kurdish homeland come about. And so we waited and waited to fly out. Once the invasion began, there was a chance we might deploy to an Iraqi base, but an officers wife mentioned it, and that had to be accepted and then denied it was going to happen, and in the end it petered out.
I was against the war from the start, and nothing that has emerged in the years following has changed my mind. On my resettlement course, I met an NBC specialist from the Army who said he went over the boarder on the first night of the war, and was given just ten rounds of ammunition to go to war with. They would have to beg more from our American friends. Over the course of the war it got so bad the American nicknamed us "The Borrowers". Says it all, really.
On Wednesday the Chilcot Report was published, and had measured but harsh words for many aspects of the war, its preparation and aftermath. The legal case wasn't really made, which is pretty much what we thought, but the Government and media cast all doubters pretty much as traitors. Of course they all changed their tune this week, calling Blair a criminal, but you can look for yourself.
In the end I feel even more vindicated I have felt since; with the complete failure to prepare for after the invasion and the descent into chaos. Of course, don't make me feel better about the hundreds of thousands of people who died, or were injured or displaced; all of them can be traced back to the decision to invade, and the end of Western values that act symbolises. Illegal invasions, torture, rendition, and all for what? A void in a country that fed the extremists and then spread to the rest of the Middle East.
I have no idea how Blair is able to sleep, able to live with what he has done. You sell your soul to the devil, and this is what happens. And then they made him a Middle East PEACE Envoy.
One hopes this should kill the idea that you can bomb a country to peace and stability, but then the hawks will win out time after time. They always do, and ordinary people pay the price. With their lives and families and homes.
However, soon after we all had drunk the first brew in the tea bar, I along with Dave Boxhall, we called into the Flight Sergeant's office. We were told that the RAF was planning for war, and being experienced we were selected to go out in the first wave with the aircraft; report to stores to collect kit, then go back to your rooms to pack, but from tomorrow, be prepared to deploy.
I went to stores, and found that already they were running out of supplies: just one NBC suit each, one "war-shot" respirator canister and so on, with the promise that the rest of what we needed would "be in theatre", or it would be waiting for us in Turkey or wherever we would be deploying to. Later in the coming months, I remember people having to go to stores and being given just a pair of NBC outer gloves, as that was all that was left in stock; it was a joke.
I went to the Army and Navy surplus stores in Lowestoft and spent £120 on things I knew I would need, just to be able to make life bearable, as this stuff, like head torches, washing lines and so on was not in kitting. A poor state of affairs when we get so little and yet our American friends get everything they need.
This came out of the blue for me, I mean I was well read and up with current affairs; I know that Bush was sabre-rattling, but Iraq was done up tightly, they couldn't fart without us knowing thank's to the two no-fly zones. And yet we were to prepare for war. In the media and in the House of Commons, the case was put ever stronger for war by Tony Blair, and yet I knew that plans were accelerating for us in the RAF.
Once March came round, we were told we were on "no-notice" to deploy, meaning there would be on 24 hour warning, just the call and we would have to go.
In the end, we were on notice to move for 69 days; rumours came and went as to whether we were going to deploy at all. Turns out that Turkey did not want to has NATO aircraft based on it's territory, and so was refusing all demands and offers to let our planes in. Then there was the chance that once the invasion began, we would be flown in to work from a captured Iraqi airfield. We had field training, how to use the cooking stoves, make a meal, and do some serious NBC training. It was all now very real. We did training on our very new laser-guided bombs, which we had not seen before, as deployments had been taken off us at Colt by another base, and they had done all the training with the new kit, and now we had half a day to train before we were going to war and doing this stuff for real.
And then the test kit didn't work, so it was all talked through, and we felt cheated. It would have been funny if it wasn't so serious.
Then we had to go to the Medical Centre for jabs. Jabs for anthrax.
Now, I was quite well read, and coming after the the attack in Washington where people had died from exposure to spores, I asked questions, and when the doctor would not give us straight answers, and then revealed that the full course would take 6 months until we had full protection, and we were due to fly out in two days; we all refused to take the jabs.
In the end, Turkey refused to allow us to use their bases, this was because they were waging their own war against the Kurds, and rightly or wrongly were concerned that such a war might make a Kurdish homeland come about. And so we waited and waited to fly out. Once the invasion began, there was a chance we might deploy to an Iraqi base, but an officers wife mentioned it, and that had to be accepted and then denied it was going to happen, and in the end it petered out.
I was against the war from the start, and nothing that has emerged in the years following has changed my mind. On my resettlement course, I met an NBC specialist from the Army who said he went over the boarder on the first night of the war, and was given just ten rounds of ammunition to go to war with. They would have to beg more from our American friends. Over the course of the war it got so bad the American nicknamed us "The Borrowers". Says it all, really.
On Wednesday the Chilcot Report was published, and had measured but harsh words for many aspects of the war, its preparation and aftermath. The legal case wasn't really made, which is pretty much what we thought, but the Government and media cast all doubters pretty much as traitors. Of course they all changed their tune this week, calling Blair a criminal, but you can look for yourself.
In the end I feel even more vindicated I have felt since; with the complete failure to prepare for after the invasion and the descent into chaos. Of course, don't make me feel better about the hundreds of thousands of people who died, or were injured or displaced; all of them can be traced back to the decision to invade, and the end of Western values that act symbolises. Illegal invasions, torture, rendition, and all for what? A void in a country that fed the extremists and then spread to the rest of the Middle East.
I have no idea how Blair is able to sleep, able to live with what he has done. You sell your soul to the devil, and this is what happens. And then they made him a Middle East PEACE Envoy.
One hopes this should kill the idea that you can bomb a country to peace and stability, but then the hawks will win out time after time. They always do, and ordinary people pay the price. With their lives and families and homes.
Thursday, 7 July 2016
Wednesday 6th July 2016
I have a fine night's sleep, and would probably still be there sleeping f the alarm hadn't woken us up at quarter to five so I could be in Folkestone to catch the train again to that London.
Only, this time, I wasn't going to London, I was going to Ashford so I could catch a Eurostar from there. It is a fine morning, and the last thing I feel like doing is going to on a train, taking 14 hours out of my working week to have a one hour business meeting. Hoever, I have been summoned!
Jools drops me off in Folkestone, I have to order a single to Ashford and a single back from Ebbsfleet, as I will have to get off there to return to Folkestone, where Jools should be waiting to pick me up. If all goes to plan.
After the fiasco of the last time I travelled on Eurostar, (not realising the Javelin I was on did not stop at Ebbsfleet and seeing it zoom past at 100mph) I made sure that I was getting on at Ashford, and all trains from Folkestone stop there! Genius.
The train is getting full, but I fight the crowds to get off and walk across the station to check in, go through immigration and security and then finding there were dozens of empty seats in the lounge, and time enough for a brew and a wad. I have a slice of fruit cake and a coffee, take a srat and do some people watching, especially the main in a RAFA blaizer, who is feeding and watering his wife/partner. They seem very happy in travelling, and in truth, so am I.
The train is approaching, so we are allowed down onto the platform, go to the places marked on the platform where the numbered carriages will stop. The doors line up, so once opened we climb on board, and I see my reserved seat is right next to a thick pillar, so I decide to take a free seat with a clear view, so I can watch the countryside roll by.
We zoom along to Folkestone, then slow to a trundle through the tunnel yard and into the blackness. The onboard manager tells us there is only one bore open, so there is a speed restriction. So, I lay back and close my eyes as we make our way under the sea to France.
It is an incredible thing, that I was on a train, caught in Kent, and the next stop was to be Calais; no boats, no ferries, just a tunnel under the sea. And those lines will take you all the way to through Europe, Russia and into China; imagine what that journey would be like!
Anyway, we emerge into some French sunshine, the fence at the tunnel patrolled by many policemen; no open boarder here either, then? We stop in Calais, then again in Lille, before powering on through the rolling Flanders countryside, peppered with fields dotted with poppies, dancing in the breeze. All over I see the towers of villages and urban churches, each one looks wonderful and I yearn to explore, but the train powers on into Belgium and to Brussels.
There is the usual chaos when leaving the platforms; not enough signs or information of onward travel. I at least have an idea of where I need to go, so walk down to the undercroft of the station, along the long corridor where there is a large departures board. I see there is a departure to Leuven at 11, in about 20 minutes, so amble over to platform 18, even though I was sure there was a quicker iner-city service I could catch, I was in no hurry.
There is a late platform change, of which there must have been an announcement, but I did not hear it, or understand it. But I see from a scree it had moved to the platform next to where I was. So it was a ltter of walking down the steps and along and back up to 16 just as my train arrived. It was a modern three car electric unit, comfortable, and with very good travel information with the next station displayed.
At one point we went through a station, and I kid you not, called Erps Kwerps, which amused me for several minutes.
I saw that there would be about a dozen stops, making the short run into an hour and ten minute trip, but then again, I was in no hurry. I enjoyed the ride and listening to the people around me babbling in Flemish. Its all rather fun, shame I'm here to work, really.
I think I should go for a walk around the city, I mean, I know it by now, but then again not every day you get the chance to walk round a European city, taking in the sights and smells it has to offer, and maybe find a place to eat. I mean there are dozens of places to eat, most with tables and chairs on the traffic-free streets, all looking wonderful, but all of them offering glasses of ice cold and foamy beer, which looks tempting, but wouldn't be good to turn up at the meeting half cut.
I walk on, round the cathedral, which I really should go into one day, and back down to the office for the meeting. I am early, but there will be drinks and maybe lunch, maybe not though.
As it turned out there was some food, and cans of cold drinks, so I am fine by the time the meeting starts, and so can concentrate and do my stuff.
I have a seat on the six o'clock train back to London, but I have to make sure I can get back to Brussels in time, so I leave the meeting at half three, walk to the station, even more tempted to a beer, but I know I can do that once I am at the main station in the city.
Its an odd thing that in Belgium is that the local services are in more modern trains, and more comfortable carriages than the inter city trains, which alough long, rattle and shake at an alarming rate, but it does get to me Midi in half an hour, and some 30 minutes in which to find a bar before the check in desk is open.
Outside the station are three bars, I pick on and order a Leffe Royale: small or large I am asked. Large I say, pay my €6 and take the glass to a table outside and take in the view. A gentleman with an accordion is playing Romany tunes. But as Noël Coward would say, no gentleman would ever play the accordion. I give him a Euro and hope he's play further away. Over the hills and far away.
He moves on, the waitress brings out some peanuts for me, and all is well with the world.
I check in, go through immigration and security, and am confronted with a waiting area with all the air of a bus station. Oddly, apart from the buffet, there is a shop selling amazingly expensive chocolates. I ponder whether to pay €29 for a small box of champagne truffles, but decide life is good enough already.
We board the train, and I am in the plusher economy plus section, just three seats wide and seats made of leather. I have a window seat, with just about a clear view round the pillar. But I am happy.
We pull out on time, and soon enough a snack dinner is served; quiche with cous-cous and a bottle of wine. Not a big bottle, enough for two glasses big, but wine. And so eating, drinking, we pass back through Flanders in the golden light of early evening, seeing the fields already being harvested.
We stop at Lille again, and then it is a straight run to Calais, through the tunnel and back into Kent. Such a shame then that I have to go through Folkestone, Ashfromd and almost to the Thames at Ebbsfleet before I can get off the train, and wait for a connecting service all the way back down again. Just as well then that there is a train straight through to Folkestone in under ten minutes.
I watch the train leave onwards to London, then tell Jools I will be in Folkestone at half seven, and she will collect me. I have to stand to Ashford, but then its just a quarter of an hour to Ashford where most people get off, so I can get a seat and watch as I pass the scenery for the 4th time that day back to Folkestone.
We drive home back along the A20, taking the now slower way over Shakespeare what with the speed limitations, just dreadful to be going along a road at 40 when in the past you've done it at 70 in the past. But traffic is light, except for the Eastern European lorries that ignore the speed limit and thrash past us at full whack.
We arrive home, and get indoors at 20:01.34: I know this as I rush to the TV to watch the Wales game on TV, and it had just started. Jools made bacon butties and a brew, which is wonderful to munch on whilst the game playes out. Wales don't play well, but are level still at half time, but concede twich in three minutes at the start of the second half, and never recover. As soon as the game finished, I switch the TV off and head to bed. Phew, rock and roll.
Only, this time, I wasn't going to London, I was going to Ashford so I could catch a Eurostar from there. It is a fine morning, and the last thing I feel like doing is going to on a train, taking 14 hours out of my working week to have a one hour business meeting. Hoever, I have been summoned!
Jools drops me off in Folkestone, I have to order a single to Ashford and a single back from Ebbsfleet, as I will have to get off there to return to Folkestone, where Jools should be waiting to pick me up. If all goes to plan.
After the fiasco of the last time I travelled on Eurostar, (not realising the Javelin I was on did not stop at Ebbsfleet and seeing it zoom past at 100mph) I made sure that I was getting on at Ashford, and all trains from Folkestone stop there! Genius.
The train is getting full, but I fight the crowds to get off and walk across the station to check in, go through immigration and security and then finding there were dozens of empty seats in the lounge, and time enough for a brew and a wad. I have a slice of fruit cake and a coffee, take a srat and do some people watching, especially the main in a RAFA blaizer, who is feeding and watering his wife/partner. They seem very happy in travelling, and in truth, so am I.
The train is approaching, so we are allowed down onto the platform, go to the places marked on the platform where the numbered carriages will stop. The doors line up, so once opened we climb on board, and I see my reserved seat is right next to a thick pillar, so I decide to take a free seat with a clear view, so I can watch the countryside roll by.
We zoom along to Folkestone, then slow to a trundle through the tunnel yard and into the blackness. The onboard manager tells us there is only one bore open, so there is a speed restriction. So, I lay back and close my eyes as we make our way under the sea to France.
It is an incredible thing, that I was on a train, caught in Kent, and the next stop was to be Calais; no boats, no ferries, just a tunnel under the sea. And those lines will take you all the way to through Europe, Russia and into China; imagine what that journey would be like!
Anyway, we emerge into some French sunshine, the fence at the tunnel patrolled by many policemen; no open boarder here either, then? We stop in Calais, then again in Lille, before powering on through the rolling Flanders countryside, peppered with fields dotted with poppies, dancing in the breeze. All over I see the towers of villages and urban churches, each one looks wonderful and I yearn to explore, but the train powers on into Belgium and to Brussels.
There is the usual chaos when leaving the platforms; not enough signs or information of onward travel. I at least have an idea of where I need to go, so walk down to the undercroft of the station, along the long corridor where there is a large departures board. I see there is a departure to Leuven at 11, in about 20 minutes, so amble over to platform 18, even though I was sure there was a quicker iner-city service I could catch, I was in no hurry.
There is a late platform change, of which there must have been an announcement, but I did not hear it, or understand it. But I see from a scree it had moved to the platform next to where I was. So it was a ltter of walking down the steps and along and back up to 16 just as my train arrived. It was a modern three car electric unit, comfortable, and with very good travel information with the next station displayed.
At one point we went through a station, and I kid you not, called Erps Kwerps, which amused me for several minutes. I saw that there would be about a dozen stops, making the short run into an hour and ten minute trip, but then again, I was in no hurry. I enjoyed the ride and listening to the people around me babbling in Flemish. Its all rather fun, shame I'm here to work, really.
I think I should go for a walk around the city, I mean, I know it by now, but then again not every day you get the chance to walk round a European city, taking in the sights and smells it has to offer, and maybe find a place to eat. I mean there are dozens of places to eat, most with tables and chairs on the traffic-free streets, all looking wonderful, but all of them offering glasses of ice cold and foamy beer, which looks tempting, but wouldn't be good to turn up at the meeting half cut.
I walk on, round the cathedral, which I really should go into one day, and back down to the office for the meeting. I am early, but there will be drinks and maybe lunch, maybe not though.As it turned out there was some food, and cans of cold drinks, so I am fine by the time the meeting starts, and so can concentrate and do my stuff.
I have a seat on the six o'clock train back to London, but I have to make sure I can get back to Brussels in time, so I leave the meeting at half three, walk to the station, even more tempted to a beer, but I know I can do that once I am at the main station in the city. Its an odd thing that in Belgium is that the local services are in more modern trains, and more comfortable carriages than the inter city trains, which alough long, rattle and shake at an alarming rate, but it does get to me Midi in half an hour, and some 30 minutes in which to find a bar before the check in desk is open.
Outside the station are three bars, I pick on and order a Leffe Royale: small or large I am asked. Large I say, pay my €6 and take the glass to a table outside and take in the view. A gentleman with an accordion is playing Romany tunes. But as Noël Coward would say, no gentleman would ever play the accordion. I give him a Euro and hope he's play further away. Over the hills and far away.
He moves on, the waitress brings out some peanuts for me, and all is well with the world.
I check in, go through immigration and security, and am confronted with a waiting area with all the air of a bus station. Oddly, apart from the buffet, there is a shop selling amazingly expensive chocolates. I ponder whether to pay €29 for a small box of champagne truffles, but decide life is good enough already.
We board the train, and I am in the plusher economy plus section, just three seats wide and seats made of leather. I have a window seat, with just about a clear view round the pillar. But I am happy.
We pull out on time, and soon enough a snack dinner is served; quiche with cous-cous and a bottle of wine. Not a big bottle, enough for two glasses big, but wine. And so eating, drinking, we pass back through Flanders in the golden light of early evening, seeing the fields already being harvested.
We stop at Lille again, and then it is a straight run to Calais, through the tunnel and back into Kent. Such a shame then that I have to go through Folkestone, Ashfromd and almost to the Thames at Ebbsfleet before I can get off the train, and wait for a connecting service all the way back down again. Just as well then that there is a train straight through to Folkestone in under ten minutes.
I watch the train leave onwards to London, then tell Jools I will be in Folkestone at half seven, and she will collect me. I have to stand to Ashford, but then its just a quarter of an hour to Ashford where most people get off, so I can get a seat and watch as I pass the scenery for the 4th time that day back to Folkestone.
We drive home back along the A20, taking the now slower way over Shakespeare what with the speed limitations, just dreadful to be going along a road at 40 when in the past you've done it at 70 in the past. But traffic is light, except for the Eastern European lorries that ignore the speed limit and thrash past us at full whack.
We arrive home, and get indoors at 20:01.34: I know this as I rush to the TV to watch the Wales game on TV, and it had just started. Jools made bacon butties and a brew, which is wonderful to munch on whilst the game playes out. Wales don't play well, but are level still at half time, but concede twich in three minutes at the start of the second half, and never recover. As soon as the game finished, I switch the TV off and head to bed. Phew, rock and roll.
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