“Shall I check your tyres, sir?”

I watched a very interesting and entertaining programme on TV last night about the author and humourist Dave Gorman’s attempt to drive across the United States from coast to coast, without spending any money at corporate chain motels, petrol (gas) stations, restaurants etc. In other words, no McDonald’s, no Starbucks, no Holiday Inns and no Arcos. The film was called ‘America Unchained’ and I must say that Dave did pretty well, only slipping up once.

When I travelled in the US back in the 70’s and early 80’s I loved all those ‘Mom and Pop’ establishments that you would find on many highways and in small towns everywhere. Most of them where run by such friendly people who were only too pleased to help you in any way that they could. Not to mention feed you to bursting point, sometimes with some very strange food indeed.

I remember once stopping at a diner in some remote part of the ‘deep south’ and being served a Sunday lunch of roast Turkey covered in thick yellow gravy, strange vegetables which may have come from some local swamp for all I knew, and little cakes which I later learned were called ‘corn bread’. Anyway it was pretty good grub, and I would have been pleased to comply with the owners instructions to … “Yer awl come back now. Here !” … If ever I had passed that way again.

During a trip to the west coast I pulled into a parking lot in front of a small Chinese restaurant which was adjacent to a pizza parlour. Both were a bit scruffy looking and sandwiched between the usual Taco Bell and a Burger King. “Which do you fancy ?” .. I asked my wife and daughter. We decided to go for pizza and entered the narrow restaurant and sat at a table. A door opened behind the counter and in walked the Chinese chef from next door followed by a little Chinese lady carrying three large pizza pans. She showed us these so that we could decide on the size of the pizzas we wanted. Yes, this busy Oriental ‘Mom and Pop’ ran both restaurants at the same time.

In New York City I loved the ‘delis’ where the word sandwich took on a whole new meaning and where ‘cawfee’ actually tasted of something.

Independant motels were nearly always of a high standard, although it was always possible to find yourself in unusual company, like the time in California when I was checking into a motel near Venice Beach, when one of the male guests asked the rather camp receptionist if he could borrow his handcuffs and invited him to join the party when he got off duty. I decided that my family and I would be more comfortable in the Best Western down the road.

I wonder if it would be possible to drive across our small island using only independant outlets along our highways for meals, petrol and lodging ? I bet that it would be harder than you think.

Once there were ‘greasy spoon’ transport cafés scattered along our main roads and plenty of ‘village’ petrol pumps. Motels were almost unheard of, but ‘bed and breakfast’ signs could be seen alongside many roads. I travelled a lot in Britain in those days, and compared to my travels in America, can remember …

… just how bloody awful it all was !
 

‘When Pontius was a pilot’.

I know that I’ve mentioned my days in the RAF a number of times in previous posts, but today is a special day as it is the 50th anniversary of my conscription as a national serviceman, so I hope that you will forgive me if I wallow in a bit of nostalgia once again.

Many people today would like to see national service reintroduced. Most of them have no experience of service life and think that a good dose of military discipline would ’straighten out’ our current crop of yobs and layabouts. I doubt that it would, for even in my day we had our share of tearaways and rebels and although many of them finished their service as better people it was not due to screaming drill sergeants or a few days in the guardhouse, it was because we were all in it together and being ‘exposed’ to our fellow man made us into more tolerant and mature human beings.

I think that a short period of some form of ’service’ may benifit many of our present youth, but not in the military, for unlike my generation they have not been brought up to expect to serve in the armed forces, and attitudes in general and the military itself have changed beyond recognition. 

Although many of us were not happy at the thought of giving up two years of our lives, most of us went without protest. Well, that’s not exactly true, for we all had our own little ways of ‘rebelling’, like my mate Ginger who had a permanent scowl on his face when on duty and would only say “sir” when reminded to do so; or Bernie who would whistle the Royal Air Force March when taking a crap. Some would walk miles out of their way to avoid saluting an officer or wear their uniforms in as non-regulation fashion as possible. I even knew ex-Teddy boy types who had their trousers tailored to look more like their beloved ‘drainpipes’: and many kept their hair as long as possible for as long as they could get away with it. A shout of … “Come here you scruffy looking airman” … was considered a compliment, and a recruiting poster displaying the message … ‘There is a place for you in the airforce’ … would always bear the scribbled postscript … “Yes, my f***ing place !”

Now bearing in mind that these were the days of the ‘Tony Curtis’ and ‘DA’ hairstyles, my initial ‘little protest’ came in the form of a ‘crew cut’, the very short style favoured by many American servicemen, but almost unknown in the UK at that time. I had this done the day before I reported for duty in the certain knowledge that my closely cropped hair would keep me out of the hands of the camp barber and his dreaded ’shears’.

So on this day exactly fifty years ago I stood in line with my fellow nervous conscripts as a sneering flight sergeant gave us ‘the once over’.

The ‘chiefy’ walked along the line ordering lads to “straighten up”, “put yer feet together” and “stand nearer to the razor next time” … He came to me ..’ took one look … and quietly said … “and as for you …  you clever little bugger … Well you can … 

…     GET YER BLEEDIN’ ‘AIR CUT !” 

“Sticks and stones … “

I had to smile at all the fuss in the press about reports of RAF personnel being ordered not to wear their uniforms in public in case they are verbally abused because of this country’s military actions in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Although I strongly disapprove of our armed forces taking part in George and Tony’s wars, I cannot understand why a few idiots should abuse young men and women who are happy to wear their uniforms in public.

It’s all a ‘far cry’ from when I was serving in the RAF in the late 1950’s, as no self-respecting national service conscript ‘would be seen dead’ in his bloody uniform when off duty: with the possible exception of when he was ’thumbing’ a lift by the roadside; for in those far off days most drivers would stop for a lad hitchhiking in uniform, because they knew that he was so poorly paid he couldn’t afford train or bus fares.

At the start of our period of basic training, better known as ’square bashing’, we reluctant recruits were ordered to pack up all our civilian clothes and send them “home to mum”, as for the next eight weeks or so we would only be allowed to wear our new uncomfortable, itchy uniforms. Well ‘new’ wasn’t exactly the word I would have used to describe them, as most of my outfit (right) was 1940’s (probablyWWII) issue with buttons bearing the ‘king’s crown’ of George VI.

At about the half-way point in our training we were allowed to leave camp if we passed inspection and would head for Manchester for a night out ‘on the town’, or as much of a ‘night out’ as one pound and five pence ($2) could buy; and I well remember how our ‘best blues’ attracted the attention (not to mention the odd empty bottle) of the local ’Neanderthals’ as we wandered through Belle Vue or sipped our warm beer, with our backs to the wall, in some smoke filled dump of a pub.   

OK, so it’s not very nice having some moron shouting abuse at you in public, but I’m sure that such instances are rare and receive the appropriate ‘response’, or servicemen must …

…    have changed a lot since my young days.

“For Gawd’s sake don’t smile”.

It’s been awhile since I had a look through the old family photo album, and as you know I like to show you my favourite pictures from time to time, and this is just one of them …

… It shows my mother (right) and … … Well that is the question … 

Do you ever look at family photographs and wonder who the other people are who appear in them ?

I don’t just mean the people in the background on the beach or beside you at the fair. I mean those who must have meant something to your relatives as they posed beside them in formal portraits or are included in ‘family’ groups.

I wonder who this unhappy looking young woman was ?

This picture was probably taken soon after World War I, so could the girl in black be mourning the loss of a loved one, or could it be that she and my mother were just obeying the photographer’s instructions not to smile ? Probably the latter as most people looked bloody miserable in the photographs from that era.

To me she has the air about her of an ‘Eliza Doolittle’. I wonder if she ever met …

…      ‘er ‘enery ‘iggins ?      

Just another one of those ‘days’.

One of my earliest memories is of being given an old flower pot and a small onion by my teacher and being instructed to put the ‘onion’ in the pot and cover it with earth. She said that this would make a nice surprise for my mother on Mothering Sunday.

At the time I was a bit puzzled by this, until she explained that the onion was actually a flower bulb, which in a few weeks would produce a lovely yellow daffodil.

My pot stood on the classroom windowsill along with those of my classmates until, sure enough, just before the big day it ‘blossomed’ into a drooping little plant which I proudly carried home to my mum.

Now we have MOTHER’S DAY ! … Yet another import from our friends ’across the pond’.

Don’t get me wrong, for I’m all in favour of honouring our mothers. I would just prefer for it still to be done in the traditional British way, with children visiting their mothers with a simple gift of flowers, or perhaps a home made card.

Once again, I believe that ‘Mothering Sunday’ was once a religious festival which had nothing to do with ‘mothers’. It was in fact to do with visiting your ‘mother church’ on the fourth Sunday of Lent.

It’s now the third Sunday before Easter, and the florists, confectioners, greetings card manufacturers and all the rest are rubbing their hands as they  start counting their profits.

How long do you think it will take them to realize that in the USA ‘Mother’s Day’ is celebrated on the second Sunday in MAY ?

Blimey ! If they re-stock the shops with their surplus mummy’s day ’tat’ immediately after they have cashed in on Easter, they can ’take two bites at the cherry’.

I’m now off to visit my daughter and enjoy a (Mothering) Sunday lunch and family gathering, where I shall make certain I remind everyone that …

…    it’s only 15 weeks ’til bloody ‘Father’s Day’ ! 

A flight to remember.

I was reminded of the very first time that I flew in an aeroplane, when I read recently that the last two Dakota (DC3) aircraft still in service in this country are to be grounded by EU health and safety regulations.

Now I have to disappoint those of you who are expecting this post to be about some daring exploit undertaken during my time in the R.A.F. because although I spent two years in the airforce I never once flew in an aeroplane, in fact I never even got to see one on the ground.

I married the old ‘trouble and strife’ in the summer of 1961, and after a brief honeymoon staying in a small hotel boarding house in a wet and windy Bournemouth we decided to save up for a ‘proper’ holiday the following year.

Yes … In the words of the song … ”We were off to sunny Spain” … with, what was then, British European Airways, in one of their latest ‘Vanguard’ turboprop airliners … Or so we thought !

This was the first flight for both of us, and although a bit nervous we were looking forward to the experience, which at that time still had an air of glamour and luxury about it: and so we were dressed accordingly in our ‘Sunday best’ when we checked-in at the West London Air Terminal for the night flight to Barcelona.

When we arrived at Heathrow airport we were advised that our plane was delayed elsewhere and that we would be flying in a replacement aircraft.

I first caught sight of this ’replacement’ as we walked across the tarmac towards the boarding point, and was immediatly reminded of the ‘Berlin Airlift’ and ’The Paras’ dropping over ‘Arnhem’.

We climbed the short flight of steps into the DC 3 and were ’squeezed’ into a pair of rear facing seats. We were each given a pillow and a blanket, but no parachute. Instead we were offered barley sugar (candy) as the stewardess muttered something about … “for your ears”.

My ears were the last things I was worried about, when a couple of hours or so later this noisey old crate was bucking and rattling it’s way over (or was it through) the Pyrenees. I looked between the ’fingers’ of ice on the window at the vibrating oil streaked wings and the snow capped peaks illuminated by the continuous lightning, which my wife claims until this day she could see flashing through the pillow which she had over her face and the blanket which covered her head.

I have flown in many types of aircraft and have made hundreds of flights since that night in 1962; and a few have been a bit ‘hairy’ to say the least, but none could compare with that first time in that old Dakota.

As we came in to land hailstones rattled on the fuselage like machine gun fire, and I was never more thankful to have my feet on ‘terra firma’ than when I stepped off that plane into the heat of a stormy Mediterranean night wearing my crumpled ’Sunday best’ suit. I pulled off my tie and shoved it into my brand new BEA flight bag.

I had survived .. I walked away .. I was unharmed .. I had not used a sick bag .. and .. It had not been necessary to  ..

…    stick the barley sugar in my ears. 

A transatlantic transition.

Leaving politics aside, I have always had a soft spot for America and it’s people, so my last post got me thinking about what has arrived in this country from the USA during my lifetime, some welcome and some not so welcome. Listed below are a few of my pet hates   and some of my all time favourites …

I could have done without …

• Baseball caps, especially when worn at all angles.
• RAP music and the ‘gangsta’ culture that goes with it.
• Hamburgers, fries (It’s bloody CHIPS !), junk food in general, the habit of eating in the street and the litter left behind.
• Cheerleaders. It’s just not British old boy: although I could get used to those young ladies from Dallas.
• Reality TV shows. It all started with Candid Camera.
• Parking meters and the wheel clamp (’Denver boot’).
• Barbecues, which ruin a summer’s day by stinking up the neighbourhood.
• TV audience over-reaction, especially on ‘talk shows’. All that bleedin’ yelling, whistling, stamping and screaming usually to greet some ‘celeb’ who is completely unknown to me.
• Budweiser, Rolling Rock, and all those other beers which get drunk straight from the bottle.
• The shopping mall, otherwise known as the home of the living dead.
• All that ’skinny latte mocha’ crap spoken in all those places where they sell expensive coffee in cheap ’paper’ cups.
• Double names like Billy Bob, Ellie May and Cindy Lou. These should be reserved for people in those parts of the USA where they play banjos and diddle their sisters.  
• ‘Trick or Treat’, along with all the other ’special occasions’ which we copy so badly when conned into taking part by greedy UK retailers.
• Peanut butter … with ‘jelly’ ? … Arghh ! … Quick ! Pass the bucket.
• Religious nutters who knock on my door trying to ’save’ me.
• Chewing gum. Take a look at the pavement (sidewalk), and Manchester United’s open mouthed masticating manager,  Alex Ferguson.
• All those TV soap operas. Did we really care who shot JR ? …      and  …
• Those bits of the American ‘Language’ which have snuck in over the years.  

OK! .. So now for some of those more welcome imports from across the Atlantic  …

• Those ’over paid, over sexed and over here’ G.I.s, without whom I might now have been speaking German.
• Spam. I still eat it.
• Hollywood movies. A lifetime’s entertainment.
• Motels. Remember searching for a boarding house ? 
• Classic TV series like … Dragnet … M.A.S.H. … NYPD Blue … The Sopranos … and many more.
• Tourists (well the quieter ones anyway), as they always call me .. “Sir”.
• Rock ‘n’ Roll, which helped turn me into a first generation teenager.
• T shirts and jeans. Made that ‘first generation teenager’ imagine that he was James Dean.
• Coca Cola, but only with rum added.
• Jack Daniel’s .. No Coke needed.
• Lots of great music from the likes of Glenn Miller, Duke Ellington, Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald and so many others.
• Pool, which, unlike snooker or billiards, can be played by almost anyone.
• The ATM, (See, a bit of ‘American’ just snuck in) our Cash Point Machine.

There are some things which were invented in the US of A and belong on both lists, like supermarkets, credit cards, mobile (cell) phones and many other gadgets and gizmos, for they have often proved to be a mixed blessing; but the one that stands out most in my mind is the juke box; much enjoyed in the coffee bars and cafes of my youth, until someone had the ’sacrilegious’ idea of installing them in pubs …

…  America !  You have a lot to answer for  !  

“A house without books is like … “

Neither of my parents had much of an education, both having left school at an early age.

My father started work when he was thirteen, taking over a milk delivery round from a man who had gone off to fight in World War I in 1914. My dad always joked that the horse that pulled the cart was smarter than he was.

My mother left school at a similar age and had just started work in a draper’s shop when that war ended in 1918.

Although lacking in formal education they were both literate and far from stupid, in fact my mother, who worked in a laundry for most of her life (it paid a shilling a week more than the drapers) ended up running the place, after she undertook to do the ‘book-keeping’ and other clerical work, even though she had never been trained to do so.

Now I have to say that although my formal education lasted until I was sixteen (and a half) I was not the greatest of scholars and my school reports always had lots of .. ”must try harder” .. or .. ”needs to pay more attention” .. comments when it came to such subjects as maths, science or Latin. However, I wasn’t too bad at ’English Language’ and always enjoyed the ’English Literature’ lessons: but how I hated that homework! … I would sit at the kitchen table struggling with logarithms and bloody theorems or trying to memorize “amo, amas, amat” and wondering why plurals didn’t end in ’s’, and verbs had to go at the end of sentences.

My parents couldn’t help me with my homework, but they did more to educate me than they ever knew, when they forked out some of their hard earned cash for me to join a book club.  

Although I used to borrow books from the public library, the ones I got in the mail every few weeks were mine to treasure until this day. Reading them and re-reading them stimulated my interest in literature, and led to the eclectic collection of books which now weigh down my bookshelves.

The actor Michael Caine is famous for his … “Not a lot of people know that” … when divulging some little known fact, and when I sometimes do the same, and am asked … ”How did you know that ?”… I simply reply …

…   “I must have read it in a book sometime.”