Spitting image

This morning I was talking to my brother in law about my time in the army. It’s not a thing I do very often. When I do, I recall all sorts of odd facts that have been filed in the back of my memory bank.

This afternoon I saw a youth spitting on the pavement, a filthy, dirty habit I abhor, BUT, it did remind me of something I witnessed as a very young trainee soldier, at the age of 16 or 17.

A couple of lads were marching (we were not allowed to walk!) past the drill square (you stepped onto it at your peril, unless undertaking drill practice). One of them spat onto the square.

Immediately there was a terrifying roar of the Regimental Sergeant Major’s stentorian voice.

“You there! PICK THAT UP.”

And he did!

 

From that idle thought this poem popped

 

My mouth is full of spittle and I care no jot or tittle

I am going to spit it out upon the floor.

As my juices flow I find my spittle starts to grow

and, as time passes there is more and more

I know not why it is but my spittle starts to fizz

It is spilling from my mouth and from my nose

So beware if passing by for I’ll spit right in your eye

as I’m covered all in spit from head to toes!

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Twittering Tales #42 – 25 July 2017

It’s time again for Kat Myrman’s wonderful challenge to tax our creative souls. Just take her photo prompt and write a story, inspired by it, in 140 characters or fewer.

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Here is this week’s prompt and my contribution. Check out all the fabulous entries here.

Reveille sounds at six they said
but who would dare to wake the dead
the bugle call was right on time
and Mary’s ghost arose sublime!

(130 characters)

  • In 1851, the four-story Marshall House was built by Mary Marshall.
  • It served as a hospital for soldiers toward the end of the Civil War, and during two yellow fever epidemics.

A child of the Army of the Rhine

Read all about this young man pointing in the right direction. You will laugh. Money back guarantee!

Broadsides

Viersen. It must have been a small agricultural village at one time. Set in vast acres of open fields of sugar beet and potatoes which ran all the way to the Dutch boarder. It became a satellite village, or a town, to Monchen Gladbach but I suspect it retained its primary agricultural nature until the coming of the railways. A major permanent way was built across the fields to the south east of the village, with sidings and sheds and workshops and a very handsome bahnhof. The rail line ran all the way into Belgium and Holland and North to the industrial Rhur. It was undoubtedly this that attracted the attention of the occupying British forces at the end of the second world war. It became, with its easy rail access to the ports at Antwerp and Ostend, the perfect place to locate a forward supply depot for the Army…

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Handfasting – a poem

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Handfasting_(Neopaganism)

Handfasting was very prevalent in the Hebrides, the Inner, and Outer, islands off the west coast of Scotland.

I had the unique privilege of living on St Kilda, a remote archipelago, some 45 miles West North West of North Uist, for several periods, mostly 6 weeks at a time. Stays sometimes proved to be longer, because access is always determined by the weather! In total, I spent some 8 months of my life there.

St Kilda has a strange hold on all who set foot there, rather akin to desert fever for anyone who has experienced true desert.

I follow a page, https://www.facebook.com/groups/St.KildaHebrides/ , on Facebook, dedicated to St Kilda, and, as part of advice being offered to a would be visitor, came across this poem written by Andrew Lane in 2009.

I do not know Andrew but, from what I’ve seen and read, feel that we would get on very well. He is a musician, so this may well have been written to perform. In any case, I hope that you find the poem at least a little interesting, especially those who may know nothing about the Scots, or their unique language.

Andrew has a lovely “lived in” face, and someone commented that it was obviously the result of someone’s advice:

“Smile a lot when you are young so that when you grow older, your wrinkles will all be in the right place”

THE HAND-FASTING

Oh, lassie, place your hand on mine, and Alastair will fetch the twine
And bind us at the wrist for aye, for this shall be our wedding day.

Bring the lassies from the wheel
To spin themselves a proper reel.
Bring the laddies from the loom
To weave a dance beside the groom.

Lassie, place your hand on mine, and Alastair will fetch the twine
And bind us at the wrist for aye, for this shall be our wedding day.

Bring the stoddart from the braes
And leave the hoggie to its ways.
Bring the fisher from the shore;
This man will be a boy no more.

Lassie, place your hand on mine, and Alastair will fetch the twine
And bind us at the wrist for aye, for this shall be our wedding day.

Set your creels upon the ling
And bow the fiddles till they sing.
Take the whistle from your poke
And pipe a tune for dancing folk.

Lassie, place your hand on mine, and Alastair will fetch the twine
And bind us at the wrist for aye, for this shall be our wedding day.

Set the bellyrive aboot,
And spread the meat upon the cloot.
Place the whisky pig beside
And you shall see the hand-fast tied.

Lassie, place your hand on mine, and Alastair will fetch the twine
And bind us at the wrist for aye, for this shall be our wedding day.

Stoddart – a herdsman. Hoggie – a young sheep. Bellyrive – a feast.
Cloot – cloth. Whisky pig – a whisky jar.

©Andrew Lane July 2009

 

The little sods from the !st Monchen Gladbach Scout Troop

Read this fantastic story of Scouting of yesteryear told by John. He is now retired, both from stealing from the Tuck Shop, and from his legal duties. He can still sing the old scouting songs though!

Broadsides

scouts-threeIt must have been the summer of 1961. Certainly before the Beatles. The music that year was all Dean Martin and the Drifters, or itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini.* And I recall being in love with a girl in the 4th form at Queens’s school in Rheindalen, Carol, and constantly singing a song to her called “Oh Carol”.** And there was Elvis of course. Anyway, I was in the boy scouts then. Moved on I had from the cubs, left behind all that Akela and dib dib, dib, dob, dob, dob stuff. Cubs had sixers in charge. I had been a sixer when a cub. Born to command I was. Now, in that summer of ’61, I had graduated to the scouts and I was quickly made a Patrol leader. Sometimes I even wore long trousers.

They would meet once a week, Wednesday evening…

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The Pleasures of Facebook – A photograph from WWII

This amazing story from Broadsides deserves a read. It stirred memories of my own experiences in Gibraltar.

Broadsides

I belong to this group on Facebook, Gibraltar Old photos 2 it’s called. It a nostalgia group whose members, mostly from Gibraltar,  post old photographs of life on and around and about the Rock. I lived there once and have many happy and treasured memories upon which I once contributed a piece to the site, some years ago, about being a boy in 1950’s Gibraltar. You can read it here. I still contribute to the site now and then, and to that purpose I was searching google for a film poster of a movie, made in Gibraltar in the early ‘60’s, staring Terry Thomas and called “Operation Snatch”. You need to be a bit careful what you type into google at times!

evacuation-happy-to-be-home
In my search I stumbled across this lovely old photograph the caption of which read “Gibraltar families returning to Gibraltar in 1945 after five years of evacuation…

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My life #14 – A late Valentine

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Not just a little late, but over 45 years since I first wrote this in a Valentine’s card. I can’t find the copy I wrote at the time but I have remembered it for all these years. Don’t know what that says about me!

It was sent to my long term, off and on, teenage, and into my twenties, girlfriend whom I shall love for ever!

If you don’t see my name, look at it acrostically.

Prolific enterprises turn eventually recumbent. My attribution turns to hieroglyphics, excogitate what’s said!

I was rather pleased with it at the time!

My life #13 – Two fingers and a small vibrator

I was going to call this “Two fingers, a small vibrator, and warm breath on my Willy”, but I thought that might excite some of my readers too much!

Too late! I’ve said it now, and I wholeheartedly apologise to the excitable blogger who likes a lot of cake. He is now lying panting under his desk and will need a large, stiff one to recuperate. I think his choice is Whisky!

I’m sure that all you ladies will agree that there can never be true equality. After all, you have to put up with menstruation, the pain of childbirth and discomfort of breast feeding, with mammograms, cervical smears, menopause, not to mention makeup, hairdo’s, high heels. The list goes on and on.

How can you possibly understand the trials of man flu, the worries of whether our tackle conforms to “average”, whether we could, if we wished, grow a beard or mustache, how to compete with Mr. Grey?

No! There can never be true equality.

I seem to have strayed from my original line of thought, so please bear with me while I give myself a severe talking to!

Right!

A couple of days ago I went to the doctors for a regular appointment and, being a man of a certain age, I was going for a check up of my parts.

By parts I mean PRIVATE parts. You know, the bits down there…………!

Now, it’s not the first time, and it will most definitely not be the last.

I no longer feel totally embarrassed, wanting to hide in a corner, nor do I think “Is s/he comparing me with others?” I do, however, make doubly, triply, quadrupley, sure that I am 100% clean, smell reasonably nice, and that my underwear is colourful enough.

This time I was being checked for sensitivity of the stomach and bowel, any testicular abnormalities, and for prostate irregularities. I’d already had blood and urine test results so was not overly concerned that there were going to be anything nasty to discover.

The doctor was superb and warmed his hands before touching anything. He handled my testicles as if they were the eggs of the last bird on earth. He was very gentle when he found that my prostate was slightly enlarged (which I already knew), but smooth. He gently cleaned up afterwards and I almost expected him to pat my bottom before telling me I could get dressed again.

As I walked away, with a smile on my face, I thought, “Damn – I forgot to take a selfie!”

On a previous check up I had been seen by his wife! Not just a random “Please let my wife feel your balls” kind of appointment. She really is a doctor too!

That experience was vastly different.

I think she was auditioning for the role of a juggler! I’m convinced that she used a pool cue to check my prostate, and the large end at that! When it came to pulling my pants back up, it was obvious that she had failed to wipe away any excess lubricant!

So, that’s the two fingers sorted!

Now we go back in time to the very first really intimate examination I can recall. I forget what age I was, but I was in the Army and, I think, probably in my late 20’s. I was suffering from quite severe hemorrhoids and had been referred to an Army hospital.

The consultant explained what he was going to do and that I would feel a slight vibration, but it should not hurt.

I did – and it didn’t!

I rather felt that, as he inserted the proctoscope and filled it with air, he really ought to have shouted out Wey Hey!

That covers the small vibrator!

There were many times when I had my testicles cupped in a doctor’s hand and was asked to “cough”! That was standard practice when I was a child, and during Army medicals. I was never quite sure what that was supposed to check!

I well remember the very first time I had my testicles fully checked as an adult. This particular doctor was a rather strange individual with a very unusual name. He was very good and had been my doctor of choice for some time. I had eventually plucked up the courage to ask him to check my testicles because I was concerned about tenderness.

He told me that he was going to kneel down in front of me, as that was the best position for him to check me thoroughly. What followed was a little disconcerting. As he gently tested me for any abnormalities I could feel his gentle breathing. It felt very close! I did totally the wrong thing and looked down, only to look straight into his smiling eyes!!!!!

There’s the warm breath!

 If you’ve read this far I do hope that you have not been offended. There is a little humour in all of these situations but the main point, for both men and women, is that we have to check ourselves, and be professionally checked, at regular intervals.

If you’ve neglected self checks, or checks by your doctor, or hospital, sort it out now. It could save your life!