****************** INTRODUCTION: to My Autobiography ( as I see it!) iwmpop in France 2005
 iwmpop (photo circa 1990)
 iwmpop and his wife Kathleen -1968(Detmold,Germany)
I
think this has been sufficiently long for an introduction, now you’ll
all have to wait many years for a “PC” finished product – but it will
be worth waiting for....! ********************* The content will be roughly as follows: Young years (up to Army time) circa 1946 to 1960 (general, school etc) Army years circa 1960 to 1968 (army, Germany first time, travel, first meeting Kate). Security break: circa end l968 to 1972 (will be treated on a different folder)
Civilian and civilian in army years : circa 1972-1980 (Home civil service, attached Army civilian, Germany, Detmold, Dortmund, Berlin..etc). Career change: circa 1980 to 1990 (Chef/cuisinier – more travel). Life change: 1992 onwards (Death of wife Kate, and afterwards to date.)
END AND THANKFULLY – “BYE BYE!" You will find articles related to this at the bottom of the page, in the sidebar and on the "Sitemap" link in the sidebar - Bonne Lecture- Enjoyable reading ************************* PART 1.
 (Paisley abbey Scotland)As
I recall, I was getting nowhere very fast with my story, so let’s go
back to a district called “College” near Paisley in Scotland, around
October 1946.
This is Scotland in October, at the end of October indeed.
There is no question of “planet warming” gas heating us up, too early –
the industrials haven’t really got going, and so I decided to get
myself born, and it ain't everybody who has "College" marked as "place
of birth" - an indication of great things to come!
Actually, I don’t
recall exactly, but I think I didn’t have a great deal of choice in the
matter, or I would without question have chosen a different place, a
different family and a different moment to set head (it seems every
baby puts its head on the ground first) on this planet.
That would have
been another story, but this one isn’t finished yet!
Not quite.....!
At this time, in
1946, what had been called the “great war” had been over for almost 30
years, and this mother of all wars to end all wars, had been replaced
by the 2nd one, which had only just finished, about a year before.
I
only mention this to point out that this was in the immediate after
years, and I presume that my conception had taken place slap-bang with
the final war days.
In any case, the whole outcome was that it really
wasn’t the moment to put anything onto this planet, and most certainly
not babies!
There was little (if poor, like us, then nothing) to eat,
little or no money to buy it with, and in any case rationing was in
full swing, and would continue to be so for another 6-10 years.
I
believe the Southern people (the English principally) recounted stories
about how the Scottish only had babies to have something to eat and to
beat rationing. Well – here is one little beggar who was missed,
unfortunately.
The English seemed to be a race full of problems and
pre-conceived ideas, and they really are, as I later found out, and according to them, we
Scots nourished ourselves only from porridge.
At the time, a perfectly
correct statement, except that the Englishman’s idea of porridge was a
cereal product, made with milk and sugar. It was a basic, staple
Scottish diet, according to them. Quite true, but to get to the REAL porridge, the one
that I knew and consumed (not avidly, but out of necessity) you would
have to change the Englishman’s milk for water, and his sugar for
salt!
The first time I tasted cow’s milk, or any animal milk for that
matter, was some 5 years later, when I started primary school, and we
were all treated to those tiny little bottles, free of charge.
These
were given out by the Government via the schools, because they knew
that if it was delivered to the house, it would be used in parents’
tea, and the kids wouldn’t see a great deal of it.
The Government of
the day (and all those which followed- right up to this day) knew its
citizen’s well!
So far as sugar was concerned, I believe everybody had a
ration (monthly) of some 50gr, and since babies (as the adults of the
day told us) did not need sugar until they started drinking tea, at
around the age of 15 years. So, you see, babies were very welcome additions to a
family – one could almost say a “sugar/milk substitute”. We didn’t
require any of the 30gr of jam allowed us per month either, which later
led to my adventure with a small pot of Robertson’s jam, which was made in Paisley, but that didn't give us any special rights - read all about it!/
The result of
the whole family's ration for the month, ;) which somehow found itself
sailing through the air, to land with a resounding tinkle of broken
glass on the pavement, whilst I (around 5 years old) endeavoured to
miss the NEXT car, the one following the first one which had clipped my
poor little arm.
This accident provoked a simple howling from the
family (my younger sister was not yet born) for the pot of Jam – sod
the silly little twit who had a nasty bruising to his arm- and the
general feeling (expressed loudly) that it probably was his fault
anyway!
This episode actually had some very revealing factors
for me, and some very advantageous effects. It showed me, firstly, that
so-called religious people didn’t love their neighbours, their
families, or anything else, except themselves, and secondly, when the
heathen lady, who kept the corner shop where I had bought the jam,
turned up at our front door with a new pot, bigger than the first, and
with the question “and how is the poor wee bairn? I would have killed
the driver if I’d got my hands on him!” proved to me that there were
reasonable people out there somewhere!
I was always, from then on, a
welcome “wee laddie” in her shop, which meant sweeties and things for
FREE!It made no difference to the attitude at home, however, I was
still considered the villain of the piece, and my mother spent much
time muttering things about “the devil takes care of his own” or
something.
I didn’t find that terribly flattering to her, and it most
certainly gave me a large desire to meet this creative personage
“Devil”, to try and make an arrangement about our future association!
So
far as I am aware, I haven’t (to date) had the honour, or I wouldn’t be
in the plight I am now, some 55 years later!!
 So life continued, slowly, and yet time passed quickly.
I
recall my first adventures with a species until then
totally unknown -girls- in
the shape and form of the neighbour’s daughter. This young lady was
around the same age as myself, but didn’t go to school, at least not my
School “Williamsborough Primary” – we were under the impression that
she was “privately” tutored, either at home or in some school
elsewhere.
This did not make her any the less “inquisitive” about those
things I had, but she didn’t, and what they were supposed to be used
for.
Naïve people of the day called it “birds and bees” stuff, but I
couldn’t see for the life of me, where or what, these two objects had
to do with Marjorie and my philanderings.
It all came to a nasty end on
a Saturday morning, in the tool shed of her home, when her Dad came in,
unexpectedly, seeking a rake for the garden, and (as he later said)
found a different type of “rake” wasting time (I could have told him
effort as well, for I wasn’t sexually so advanced as to actually see or
feel any change to those necessary parts) with his daughter.My father
was informed, things took their course, I got belted, and Marjorie got
comforted.
This episode taught me a great deal about life, its
injustices, its so-called pleasures (like having your backside belted)
and the complete and utter indifference of all people towards the young
male concerned (whose fault the whole thing obviously was) and their
sympathy towards the lady (who had started it all).
This “gallantry” has
continued even into this epoch, where the young ladies who walk around
in 2005 not “almost” naked (that would be supportable for the young
males of today) but they walk around with just the correct amount and
correctly placed pieces of tissue/leather or other material, to avoid
being arrested for indecency (stupid word), but still sufficiently
insufficient as to raise a young man’s tether, and pecker!
It happens
all the time, and if girlie doesn’t get the things girlie wants, or if the
situation comes out into the light, then girlie screams and shouts
something about rape and aggression, whilst boysie is standing there,
pecker deflated, wondering what is going on.
Mind you, it does happen
that girlie shouts “WOLF!” once too often, particularly nowadays, and
boysie gets his pecker back up!
Anyway, way back in the dusty past, the
natural assumption was – boys fault, boy belted, girl comforted, start
again next Saturday!
Once a week - normally!
At the time, Saturday’s were
quite exciting days.
It seemed to be tradition to get married on a
Saturday in the Scotland of the period, probably because they had the
weekend off (at least from midday Saturday onwards) which meant that
the Groom could rush back from his job at around 12 noon, jump into his
quarterly bathtub, from there into his rented/sometimes bought, new
suit (often black, but occasionally the moreultra modern “charcoal- grey”),
rush downstairs to the waiting limousine (probably the first time in
his life he’d been in a car, and then nothing less than a “Triumph” or a “Rolls” luxury
version).
He had tried to save a few bob, by saying he had his
motor-bike available, but this offer had not gone down too well.
Tradition had it, at the time, that the brides father was occupied at
the same moment in time, in another part of the town, in a second
“Rolls, Bently, Triumph de-luxe” in escorting his daughter to her doom.
Tradition also had it (luckily) that at the moment of departure in the
luxury motor, the windows would be wound down, and enormous fistfuls of
money, small coins, generally in the form of silver threepenny pieces, would be
thrown out.
This was said to bring luck and wealth, and it certainly
did to me – having figured out that my Uncle’s enormous hat did , after
all, have a purpose.
I think this quick wittedness was what attracted
Marjorie to me – leading to the invitation to the shed.
I sometimes got
to do 3, even 4 weddings on one Saturday, because the posh and rich
people preferred to do it in the morning (I suppose being used to
getting up with the mist to go riding) the poorer Catholic families
started at around 1pm (just to beat the poorer Protestants), and the
Protestants always did it at 3pm, because that was the time on a
Saturday afternoon when the Groom and all the other men would normally
go to the football match, which had a double function – no football
match this wedding Saturday. This fact imposed, from the start, the female
dominance in the happy relationship, and of course, the Grooms couldn’t
say they had forgotten, having talked for months about which match they
were going to miss!
After the church ceremony ( a civil ceremony was out
of the question) the Groom would get smashed out of his mind at the
reception, the bride would wail and weep bitterly, seeing her pecker
drooping for the night, and finally around 9pm, the Groom and Bride
took off (this time often on his motorbike) for the overnight hotel,
and the Sunday honeymoon!
On Monday, back to work!!
Such were the habits
of the epoch, and looking back, I can well imagine that the Groom was
well pleased when he touched his card into the clock timer at the
factory.
Peace at last!!
Golf of course -
Being brought
up in the Scotland of the period did have its advantages. To make up
for the damp climate, the damp – no – the WET walls inside the houses,
the charms of breaking the ice covering your face washing water in the
morning, the lack of money, the lack of food, the lack of transport
(everything was done on foot, and lucky was the guy who had a bike) and
as a “wee bairn”, I had to learn what these advantages were, how to use
them, to stay reasonably alive.
One of the things I learnt at a very
early age was how to get on the golf course (just round the corner from
our house) without being seen, and pinching the balls from the green,
only to sell them back later to the other golfers, at the entrance to
the Golf Club, one halfpence a ball if it was brand new, or 6 pence for
the baker’s dozen! (As I recall it was a clever, helpful, rich golfer who taught us
about baker’s dozens, which according to him were always 14!)
Now, in
later life, and having played a little golf, I feel a little bit
ashamed of having done this, not for the golfer (he could afford it)
but for the fact that the shot had/could have been the best he had made
in the 18 holes.
Incidentally, we never got caught! We had a system on
the 13th hole, where the golfer couldn’t see the green from the tee (it
was a par 3), so we had all the time in the world to run out, grab, and
disappear! Now and then, because we suspected that it wasn’t right, we
would put the ball into the hole!
How many members of the “hole-in-one
club” did we promote?
This all stopped when my school-friend decided to
put all three of the tee shots into the hole! I deemed it preferable to
avoid that particular hole for a while - my friend didn't, and he got belted - again!
I went back to the place which
the Golf Club accepted as “ours” – the pond hole! Here we were allowed
to search for golf balls, after the golfer himself had vainly attempted
to fish his ball out.
We had to sell them, at a miserable price, to the
chap in the Golf club shop, but it was an income for sweeties and
stuff!
I often wonder how we stayed alive, sometimes plunging naked
into this filthy pond, in November, in Scotland! Always we had to
paddle in bare feet, wiggling our toes in the thick mud at the bottom,
trying to feel the golf balls.
Towels, of course, we didn’t have, and I
port to this day a souvenir scar on my upper, inner thigh (left), of
the day I found the rusty barbed wire just under the surface of the
water!
Still, it kept us amused, and brought in a few pennies.
Entrepreneur at 5 years of age!Another mindless souvenir is of one of
my casual, live-in-the-same-road friends, whose Grandad had served in
the Infantry during the 1st world war, in the trenches, and he always
loved to show us kids his trench rifle, with bayonet fixed, which stood
dusty and unwanted, in the corner of the potting shed, having been
banished there by Grandma! I recall the first time I saw this marvel,
and as I looked up at this sharp-pointed thing towering metres above my
head,
I wondered how the devil you could manipulate the thing towards
the belly and guts of the oncoming enemy.
No doubt the impressive size of
the thing was partly due to my diminutive size at the time, but I have
seen others in later life, and they are rather long and wicked looking
things.
I had no further interest (apart
from bewondering it) in this article of war, but my friend did!
Smaller
than me, he had decided to go into the circus business, and thought
that this enormously long, wicked thing, would make a good start. He
intended to install the thing in a bare patch of the wood we all went
to, and charge us all a one farthing entry!
One halfpence for those who
wanted to touch the sharp end of the bayonet (which my friend said had
been in the guts of thousands of “jerries”).
In fact I had inspected the
bayonet, and had found touches of dry red spots, nowadays I'm sure they
were rust spots, or.....?How Grandad had got this monstrosity back
from the fronts up to Scotland we all wondered, particularly I and my
friend, as one late afternoon (after school) we found ourselves
tiptoeing down the drive, carrying the rifle with fixed bayonet between
us. I had been promised a part of the profits, and I ended up getting
the same as my friend!
A belting on the bare buttocks, by an irate
Grandpa who gave little mercy! I suppose we could think ourselves lucky
that he took his belt, and not the bayonet! Anyway, the circus idea was
not a very good one, so we went back home with glowing, red cheeks-from
the healthy open air, no doubt - to think out other possibilities.
(seems to me this photo is getting over-exposure.....!) ************************************ Next time around - the wee bairn is obliged to associate himself with the English - in their den......! Don't miss it - if it ever is published!
Make a reservation today and get 25% REDUCTION.........!***********************
[Ed
note:- These first 2 episodes in the auto-biography are published FREE
OF CHARGE on the blogspot: http://www.marquisdugalipot.blogspot.com -
For the rest, you’ll have to pay, after publication, for a copy signed
personally by the author! ]
PART 2: BOLTON......... Chorley...? Where or who the hell is Chorley.....? It had taken quite some time, but furniture packed, suitcases done, I mounted the old fashioned "charabanc" of the epoch, mother ahead with my small sister in arms! We were emigrating! Well, not quite all of us, my older brother had realised the advantages of staying north of the border, outside of family influences - our father, as I recall, had gone on ahead - by car, not bus! Emigrating to where the people say Scots people always go anyway - South of the Border, and not "down Mexico way either!" It appeared there was a place called Bolton, in Lancashire. Industrial place, steel and mills, Nat Lofthouse and Wanderers, garden front and back, but no rhubarb! They spoke a strange tongue, and I fully expected my mother to up and rant on about "towers of Babel" - "You're all crass sinners" and the like, but the thing that delayed this reaction was the fact there were only 3 people on that bus who spoke strangely - US! My little sister was still at the stage of burbling and burping, I myself had realised already quite a long time ago that it wasn't worth opening your mouth - you would be wrong anyway and told to shut up! This left only my mother, so she wisely held her breath. My first real experience with this strange language was when the Bus Driver pulled into what we assumed to be a Station, and walked up the bus calling loudly "Chorley - Chorley". I asked for the wisdom of my Mother: "What's he shouting for....?" The reply was quite clear,"I think he's calling for his friend, Charlie, maybe it's another driver to take over...!" WELCOME TO ENGLAND, pearl of the South, home of the Sassenachs and White and Red Roses and stuff like that! Having been told that London was down there somewhere, I assumed that "Bolton" was in London, maybe we'd have to get to London and from there to Bolton...? Anyway - I asked the "Charly" guy, and he informed me that I was "on the wrong bloody bus" if I wanted to go to London. This one was going to Bolton! At least - I think that's what he said - not easy at my age to translate foreign languages! I think it was at that moment in life that I realised I would have to take time and trouble to learn to communicate with other tongue speakers! My mother was still reflecting on her opening words about Babel & Sinners, but hadn't quite got the courage to start! Sod Babel and Sinners! Let's get to Bloody Bolton! BOLTON - Flowery bloom of Lancashire's countryside! (this is Bolton fishmarket-not bad for miles from the sea!) ********************** To be continued...........
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