Monday, March 31, 2014
Stubborn bugger
In the thirties, like many people who came through the great depression, Grandfather was very careful with money. As he never trusted banks he kept various stashes around the house in jam jars and other secret places.
In the local town a new type of shop opened up - selling cars. Grandad decided he should have one of those things so he went to the shop and was shown the only car they had. Grandad surveyed the car, kicked a tyre or two and marvelled at the engine. He then told the salesman he'd take it. He placed a small suitcase on the table and opened it. It was full of five pound notes! In those days five pounds was a very good weekly wage - and here was hundreds of them!
When the salesman composed himself and the paperwork was complete, Grandad was told of the delivery date. "What do you mean? " he said, "It's right there, I'll take the bugger now! There's no sense in buying a bus ticket if I have a car! Don't be daft man!" Once the reality of the situation set in and Grandad accepted he couldn't take the man's only car, he left and returned on the appointed day.
In those days, licences were unknown and driving instructors unheard of. You bought a car, the salesman showed you how it worked and you drove off. And that is what Grandad did. He set off down the middle of the road, crunching the gears and terrifying horses. For the rest of his driving career, he never bothered with lines on the road or keeping left, he drove right down the centre of the road, just as he would have driven a horse and cart. It must have been a terrifying sight watching him come closer and closer with absolutely no intention of moving over or giving way. He was lucky he had the only car in the district or his perfect driving record may have been spoilt with a head on crash with some other stubborn bugger.
Hammering wisdom
Before I came to Australia my favourite memories are of spending time with my grandfather in his shed. I remember one time I had picked up a hammer and he took a hold of it in his big miner's hands and pushed my grip down to the end. He said "You hold a bottle by the neck, a woman by the waist and a hammer by the base. Every time I reach for a hammer, those words come back to me. He was a very brave man. His brother was killed on the Somme in WWI and when WWII came around he sent two sons and a son in law to war, and a couple of daughters to work building spitfires. His house was bombed twice and yet every working day he went down the mine and worked all of his shift not knowing if his family was being killed above ground. My reciting this phrase is my attempt at honouring him and passing on some of what he was to the future.
Dear Health Insurer
I just wrote this to my health insurer: Hello, I note that you provide refunds for homeopathic remedies. Given that the two basic tenets of homeopathy are:
1. Like cures like, so e.g. caffiene is given as a cure for insomnia. 2. The weaker the dose, the higher the potency. These are clearly ridiculous claims. To give a stimulant in any dose for insomnia goes against all known science. As for the dilution, typical concentrations are 1: to the power of 23 - a -1 followed by 23 zeros.
Given Avagadro's Number, there is doubt that a single atom of the active ingredient reaches the patient. They just drink water or swallow placebo pills. There is not a shred of scientifically verified evidence to support the claims these people make.
I object to you paying for these 'treatments' for three reasons.
1. It enriches these con artists.
2. It gives a level of respectability to their fraud.
3. My premiums are higher because you pay this benefit.
I doubt this will have any affect upon your practices, but could you at least grant me a reason why you will continue to support this fraud upon genuinely sick people?
Paul Hannah
Tinker Tailor, Soldier, crap.
Yesterday we went to see Tinker Tailor.
It was the Bourne Identity without any action, suspense, drama, plot or scenery. T
o say it was glacially slow would show glaciers in a bad light. A glacier would speed past this movie and wave as it went by. It is as obscure as "Lost in Translation" and as filled with action as a Bambi cartoon is filled with pornography.
To say the plot had twists and turns would be hard as there was no discernable plot. There was a nice view of Istanbul for a few seconds. The rest was dingy squalid offices, At one point one fellow was sitting on a couch and he said something innocuous and another fellow inexplicably launched into him and smacked his head around.
The other people in the room barely raised an eybrow at this outburst and the two protagonists continued for the rest of the movie as if nothing had happened. I think the assaulted fellow was as confused as I was, but he at least didn't have to sit through two hours of the crap.
The film opened with an action sequence. Which, since it was one of the few times in the movie something actually happened, the director milked it by repeating chunks of it inexplicably through the movie. The movie also had a strange effect on the nature of time. It didn't matter how many times I looked at my watch, the movie still had an hour to go.
If you insist on seeing this piece of stinking slime, you should go prepared. Take a person with you, one of you is likely to be sicker than the other and you can help each other to the nearest bar to get plastered in the hope that the alcohol will knock off enough brain cells so that you forget seeing most of the movie. A word of caution here, be sure to retain some memory of the movie no matter how awful this must be, as a safety measure. Without this memory you might go and see the movie again and no one has ever survived that experience sane. Keep your mobile phone on in case something more important turns up - what could be more important? Well a call from an Indian call centre to evaluate your phone plan would count, as would any survey by anyone, particularly useful would be a political survey. So that you can help distract those around you from the movie you should repeat each question loudly and get the consensus of the audience before you answer. Ear plugs are to drown out the awful dialogue and sunglasses should help reduce the likelihood of accidental viewing. You will need a vomit bag - be sure to keep this handy in case your eyes stray to the screen. I wouldn't eat first as those vomit bags can only hold so much. In fact you would be much safer and happier staying at home sticking needles into your eyes and then doing some amateur surgery with a chainsaw.
Facebook Canibalism
Tomorrow, Facebook will change its privacy settings to allow Mark Zuckerberg to come into your house while you sleep and eat your brains with a grapefruit spoon. To stop this from happening go to Account> Home Invasion Settings> Cannibalism> Brains, and uncheck the "Tasty" box. Please copy and repost
Modern Times
Sign of the times. My gardener/handyman brings his kids along to help some days and I give them a job and chuck 'em a coupla dollars. Given this windfall when I was 13 would have meant, a milkshake with my mates, a new T shirt or a down payment on a record. Not this kid. She put the tenner right onto credit for her phone.
Darwin Shirt
My next T Shirt:
And from the Northwest, in the land called England, shall arise a great prophet who ye shall call Darwin. He shall speak great wisdom in the matter of how one beast came to become another and the natural order of things called Evolution. Listen well, for he speaks the truth.
Dawkins 31:12
And from the Northwest, in the land called England, shall arise a great prophet who ye shall call Darwin. He shall speak great wisdom in the matter of how one beast came to become another and the natural order of things called Evolution. Listen well, for he speaks the truth.
Dawkins 31:12
A new ten (plus two) commandments
1. Don't kill anything unless you have to and by doing so you save other lives.
2. Don't steal, unless you or your family are starving and there is no other choice.
3. Don't torture, ever, for any reason.
4. Don't enslave anyone, not even a bit like paying really low wages.
5. Don't discriminate on any grounds.
6. Don't rape anyone. Ever.
7. Don't be violent or aggressive unless you are protecting yourself or other people.
8. Respect the environment, recycle, repair, reuse.
9. Be kind to the disadvantaged and respect their needs
10. Respect animals domestic and wild.
11. Think hard about your actions and their effects.
12. Educate yourself and your children.
For Kate Part One
Many years ago, when my beautiful daughter, Kate was about fifteen, she dropped a hint that I hadn't fully explained what it was that I did to support us. I made a silly off hand joke about making money out of rich lawyers and forgot about it. Tonight, dear Kate, I will answer that question. I hope you will forgive it being late and on Facebook like this, but here goes. Our state of Queensland in the mid eighties was in political and legal turmoil. There was corruption from the highest levels of government and the Police Force was literally a joke. That was what they called the corrupt ring of police officers, the 'Joke', there wasn't much you couldn't get done or not done, for the right money. There was one occasion where the front page of a leading newspaper, had on the front page, a headline quote from the minister for Police "There is no illegal gambling in Queensland" Much of the rest of the page was taken by a picture of a full sized roulette table, being craned into a building in the seedy part of town. Traffic was being controlled by an on duty, uniformed, policeman. There I was recently graduated in Industrial Relations, Psychology and English, with a minor foray into law. My friend Michael Forde, now a retired Judge, knew I was struggling financially, with only a half time job at Actor's Equity (Go on someone, ask me about Judith Durham!) and a couple of kids on my own. I had done a deal with my Ex in exchange for foregoing her contribution to their upkeep she gave me a substantial sum of money to enable me to buy a house for us. But even so, things were tight. Michael was a trial lawyer, called a 'barrister' here. One day Michael was landed with a very big case indeed. Bjelke Petersen and Cabinet v Warburton. We were talking while training to work one day and he was telling me how for this case he had 8000 documents to sort, file and keyword. I said "Well Michael, for that you need a computer." "Would you help me?" Said Michael. "Sure, whatever I can do, I will. " I replied Now, some may say that my answer was a perfectly reasonable assessment of the situation. However you might want to consider that my entire experience with computing was that once, I saw a mainframe computer. And my father had given me an Amstrad 64 a few months earlier. You should know, that I wore that 64k with pride any time I met anyone who also had a computer. Which wasn't often. So basically, I knew nothing, had no experience
Me Being Polite
A PM conversation I had moments ago with a fellow who thought my grammar could use some improvement:
Paul Hannah When I write posts on FB I write in a colloquial form, a form that reflects the casual nature of the conversations. Writing my stories and letters I write, as I was trained, in correct, formal, English.
HIM: Yeah.
Paul Hannah Do you have any understanding of the glass house you live in?
i.e. You wrote:
" ... . Its weird, I find myself correcting peoples grammar since Ive been in English class, when half the time I dont use it myself LOLOL."
Paul Hannah An ellipsis (...) indicates something missing and should not be used in this way. It adds nothing to your sentence. Contractions such as 'Its' should not be used in formal English. When you indicate possession, as in "peoples" an apostrophe is required. It should be ' people's '. Contractions, if you must use them, need apostrophes too. "Ive" becomes 'I've' and "dont" becomes 'don't'. Your paragraph would also have been clearer if you added the comma after 'time'.
Correcting grammar is a literary minefield, if you are in the position of still attending English class, you may not yet be qualified to do so. I would in this and future cases, advise caution, others may not be as polite as I.
Paul Hannah When I write posts on FB I write in a colloquial form, a form that reflects the casual nature of the conversations. Writing my stories and letters I write, as I was trained, in correct, formal, English.
HIM: Yeah.
Paul Hannah Do you have any understanding of the glass house you live in?
i.e. You wrote:
" ... . Its weird, I find myself correcting peoples grammar since Ive been in English class, when half the time I dont use it myself LOLOL."
Paul Hannah An ellipsis (...) indicates something missing and should not be used in this way. It adds nothing to your sentence. Contractions such as 'Its' should not be used in formal English. When you indicate possession, as in "peoples" an apostrophe is required. It should be ' people's '. Contractions, if you must use them, need apostrophes too. "Ive" becomes 'I've' and "dont" becomes 'don't'. Your paragraph would also have been clearer if you added the comma after 'time'.
Correcting grammar is a literary minefield, if you are in the position of still attending English class, you may not yet be qualified to do so. I would in this and future cases, advise caution, others may not be as polite as I.
Fireball!
Around this time in 1973 I was working at my first job as a pupil surveyor. I cannot imagine what possessed me to apply for that job and for the life of me I cannot think why they hired me. At any rate, there I was working in the rainforests and farmland of Mt Tamborine. Tamborine didn't have the darkest skies I had seen, but it was damned close. I was walking along Long Road, looking at the stars and suddenly a bunch of bright lights fanned out across the sky. I learned later that it was probably space junk and not an exploding meteor. But tonight, I saw, not my first meteor, but a fireball as bright as seven or eight Jupiters, It was jaw droppingly fantastic. it had a tail about as long as the radius of the moon appears and its large solid head was bright white.
Geiger Counter
The popular image of a scientist is a genial, absent minded fellow. However being bright doesn't mean you are a nice guy.
Richard Dawkins is famously known for his arrogance and superior air.
Marconi's best man for his second wedding was Mussolini!
Thomas Edison was so consumed by the competition between his DC and Tesla's AC, that he publicly electrocuted an elephant, to show the dangerous nature of AC.
But by far the worst scientific arsehole was Geiger, he of the famous Geiger counter. He reported and informed on his Jewish colleagues and sent some to their deaths.
Richard Dawkins is famously known for his arrogance and superior air.
Marconi's best man for his second wedding was Mussolini!
Thomas Edison was so consumed by the competition between his DC and Tesla's AC, that he publicly electrocuted an elephant, to show the dangerous nature of AC.
But by far the worst scientific arsehole was Geiger, he of the famous Geiger counter. He reported and informed on his Jewish colleagues and sent some to their deaths.
A win!
I think I won a Xtian/ atheist debate yesterday. I was on shaky ground as I really wanted to maintain the relationship and not be seen as disrespectful. (Even though I am!)
Xtian: I think that you can look at the bible and recognise it was made by men, showing norms and prejudices of the time. But leaving a core of truth for us to follow.
Me: I see two problems with that.
1. If you take the very core of Christianity, Christ's words and say, well at least that much is true... (Xtian nods) then you must accept that the entire OT is true and validly part of Xtianity, as Christ said explicitly that he was not here to change even a small amount of the old law.
2. If you start saying, this bit is OK, this bit is not OK, then you have to provide a rational reason (other than I like this bit, not that) for your choices.
Without that, your religion is just an expression of the personal preference of individuals and collectively meaningless.
Silence.
Xtian: I think that you can look at the bible and recognise it was made by men, showing norms and prejudices of the time. But leaving a core of truth for us to follow.
Me: I see two problems with that.
1. If you take the very core of Christianity, Christ's words and say, well at least that much is true... (Xtian nods) then you must accept that the entire OT is true and validly part of Xtianity, as Christ said explicitly that he was not here to change even a small amount of the old law.
2. If you start saying, this bit is OK, this bit is not OK, then you have to provide a rational reason (other than I like this bit, not that) for your choices.
Without that, your religion is just an expression of the personal preference of individuals and collectively meaningless.
Silence.
Honeymoon in Australia!
The fashion for holiday hotspots changes often, Australians have a love affair with Europe but most notably Turkey. However Australia seems to be a place that many people want to visit. Most Americans I have met want to visit, but our most faithful fans are the Japanese. Particularly honeymooning couples and their families. The reason is at least partially economic. The birth of a daughter in that country means the parents have to start saving for the wedding. A Japanese wedding is incredibly expensive, $100k or $200k are unremarkable expenditures.
Some years ago a Japanese soap opera showed two of its stars marrying on a beach in Surfers Paradise (Gold Coast Australia). From then on we were a popular destination. It seems it was cheaper to fly the immediate family and the bridal party here than to pay for the ceremony at home. [I understand that this may be or has already changed. In ceremonies it is becoming more common for people pay a hefty sum to attend the reception.]
There was a disturbing development that arose from this trend, bridal suicides. The bride, having discovered what a pig she married and looking at the social impossibility of divorce and the fact their family has just shelled out a huge sum for the wedding, see no option but to leap from the balcony of their luxury apartment. As a result, a special Japanese speaking hotline has been established and leaflets promoting the service are in every hotel room, hoping to talk these desperate women down from the edge.
Some years ago a Japanese soap opera showed two of its stars marrying on a beach in Surfers Paradise (Gold Coast Australia). From then on we were a popular destination. It seems it was cheaper to fly the immediate family and the bridal party here than to pay for the ceremony at home. [I understand that this may be or has already changed. In ceremonies it is becoming more common for people pay a hefty sum to attend the reception.]
There was a disturbing development that arose from this trend, bridal suicides. The bride, having discovered what a pig she married and looking at the social impossibility of divorce and the fact their family has just shelled out a huge sum for the wedding, see no option but to leap from the balcony of their luxury apartment. As a result, a special Japanese speaking hotline has been established and leaflets promoting the service are in every hotel room, hoping to talk these desperate women down from the edge.
Red Tape
Our current state government, is controlled by a party that roughly translates to the US republican party or the UK conservatives. As many would know these parties like small government and less red tape, but the truth is slightly different.
A few years ago, getting a police report for an accident, was a relatively simple matter, you just asked the cop. Now to get a police report, this is the low government, low red tape solution:
First phone the police station to get an incident report number. Then get a form from one government office that controls FOI requests. Then once you have a response from them granting you permission to access the documents, you get a form from another government department, charged with the dissemination of the documents, having filled out that form, they will probably give them to you.
It reminds me of booking a train ticket in India. First you queue to get the reservation, then you queue to pay and then, receipt in hand, you cue for your ticket.
A few years ago, getting a police report for an accident, was a relatively simple matter, you just asked the cop. Now to get a police report, this is the low government, low red tape solution:
First phone the police station to get an incident report number. Then get a form from one government office that controls FOI requests. Then once you have a response from them granting you permission to access the documents, you get a form from another government department, charged with the dissemination of the documents, having filled out that form, they will probably give them to you.
It reminds me of booking a train ticket in India. First you queue to get the reservation, then you queue to pay and then, receipt in hand, you cue for your ticket.
Old Crows
Going to my car after a hospital visit, there were a few crows making noise. Right next to them is a middle aged man pushing an elderly woman and they were both taunting the crows with their own version of a crow call.
Things that make me laugh. #427
I have an odd sense of humour. Perhaps because I am an Aussie.
I just thought it would be funny if some old bastard jumped on a table in a pub and yelled "Atheists are better at non-Euclidean geometry! I will fight any bishop who calls me a liar!."
I think it was two of the original Stones line up that used to play a prank on London pedestrians by having one of them dressed as a vicar and be strolling harmlessly down a fashionable shopping street. The other would screech up in a Rolls Royce and the two would then commence to brawl to the horror of the passers by. The sight of a vicar of the Church of England beating seven kinds of crap out of a fellow was culturally horrifying.
When I first read this I had tears of laughter, even now I am laughing writing it out.
I just thought it would be funny if some old bastard jumped on a table in a pub and yelled "Atheists are better at non-Euclidean geometry! I will fight any bishop who calls me a liar!."
I think it was two of the original Stones line up that used to play a prank on London pedestrians by having one of them dressed as a vicar and be strolling harmlessly down a fashionable shopping street. The other would screech up in a Rolls Royce and the two would then commence to brawl to the horror of the passers by. The sight of a vicar of the Church of England beating seven kinds of crap out of a fellow was culturally horrifying.
When I first read this I had tears of laughter, even now I am laughing writing it out.
A Tale of Ten Keys
In the early eighties I was a single parent of two (2 and 5yrs) and one of the things I did to keep our little unit functioning was join the Army Reserves. If I was a bit more grown up about it, the time would have been well spent, but that just wasn't me at the time, so I managed (as did a lot of others) to piss off a Warrant Officer.
The rank of WO is a sort of half way house between the lower ranks and the exalted officer levels. WO Boundy was the fellow's name and his image is seared into my memory. There were WOs who were decent, hard working fellows, who would help you understand stuff, more likely to take you to one side and give you some one on one training, than to yell at you for making a mess of something... But this fellow was a bully who got off on his power. We found out he was a security guard and the psychology students guessed he was compensating for his low social status and jealous of all of these 'smarter than he was' uni students.
Our commanding officer's main fault was that he was a bit vain and I decided to use that as a lever to get me away from Boundy and into a cushier job. At the time I still considered myself as a professional photographer and the CO had a habit of approaching grunts like me and asking "What would you like to achieve in the unit?". This was common knowledge, so I prepared my answer well ahead of time.
"Well, sir, my short term aim is to convince you that you need a regimental photographer and that I, am the best soldier for that job". It worked. The next camp, I was taken from my company, assigned nominally to the intelligence unit and had a brief to photograph every soldier (especially the CO) doing what we did.
I modified a rifle case to contain my cameras and other gear and put a nice solid lock on it to secure my stuff. QUR wasn't going to indemnify me of any losses! The keys for the case were kept on a string of communications cord around my neck. On the first day Boundy jumped on me for not being where the rest of the diggers were and he was stunned to be told, that I now reported directly to the CO and "I have my orders sir."
He was livid. He couldn't go talk to the CO directly, but I could. He was going to get me somehow.
On the first day of camp I was having a shower when he came into the room and stole my keys. (I will prove this later in the story) Consequently I had to break into my new box to get to my gear and then keep it in the guardhouse for 24hr protection. It was quite inconvenient. And he pinched my house and car keys with them! I had another 14 days to work out how I would replace them all and so beyond inconvenience, it wasn't a disaster.
On the second last day I got a lift back to HQ and commandeered a room to develop the pics. They proved to be as good as I hoped and I had a shot of all 500 or so soldiers doing exciting things. Photographs they could never get otherwise. I knew I was going to be able to sell them all and prove my worth to the CO as well as making a sizeable donation to regimental funds. (R funds were used for present and future soldier welfare matters, helping them when they fall on hard times). So I felt pretty good about my contribution to the unit.
Years later I had a knock on the door from a different WO from a regular unit, asking if they could have my negs to decorate some recruiting drive!
My next little ego boost was that I was to be on camp when my first exam results were released. I called my mother to read out my results and they were better than I could have dreamed. I had to have her read them three times before I believed they were correct. I got another lift back to the camp, to present the CO with his copies and then I re-join intelligence soldiers so I could formally finish the camp with a parade.
At this point, despite feeling very good about myself I was exhausted. I had worked in the darkroom for 16 hours straight and had no sleep for 23 hours. I was with my group sitting on the grass waiting for the bus to take us back to HQ, when I saw Boundy approach. He had my keys in his hand, and was swinging them around on the comms cord. When he asked the group if anyone had lost a set of keys, I kept quiet. I just didn't want to speak to the arsehole. He asked again. louder. I ignored him even harder. Then he walked right up to me and asked me if they were mine.
He could only know they were mine because he stole them from me! I stood up and this exchange ensued:
Boundy: You are a failure aren't you private Hannah?
Me: No sir I am not.
Boundy: I say you are a failure. Me: I can't agree with you sir.
Boundy: If I say you are a failure, you are a failure private!
Me: I can't agree with that either sir. I have just presented 500 great photographs to the CO, and when my fellow soldiers see them, they will love them sir. Further, my trip to HQ got me my exam results and I can see now, my future is bright. On that basis, I cannot see how any objective assessment could find me a failure, sir.
Boundy: When we get back, you might find yourself on a charge.
Me: Would that be in front of the CO who is at this moment looking at all the great photographs I took for him?
Boundy: Watch your step soldier.
Me: Very well sir. He dropped the keys at my feet and left. If my comrades could have cheered, they would have. Every picture was sold.
The rank of WO is a sort of half way house between the lower ranks and the exalted officer levels. WO Boundy was the fellow's name and his image is seared into my memory. There were WOs who were decent, hard working fellows, who would help you understand stuff, more likely to take you to one side and give you some one on one training, than to yell at you for making a mess of something... But this fellow was a bully who got off on his power. We found out he was a security guard and the psychology students guessed he was compensating for his low social status and jealous of all of these 'smarter than he was' uni students.
Our commanding officer's main fault was that he was a bit vain and I decided to use that as a lever to get me away from Boundy and into a cushier job. At the time I still considered myself as a professional photographer and the CO had a habit of approaching grunts like me and asking "What would you like to achieve in the unit?". This was common knowledge, so I prepared my answer well ahead of time.
"Well, sir, my short term aim is to convince you that you need a regimental photographer and that I, am the best soldier for that job". It worked. The next camp, I was taken from my company, assigned nominally to the intelligence unit and had a brief to photograph every soldier (especially the CO) doing what we did.
I modified a rifle case to contain my cameras and other gear and put a nice solid lock on it to secure my stuff. QUR wasn't going to indemnify me of any losses! The keys for the case were kept on a string of communications cord around my neck. On the first day Boundy jumped on me for not being where the rest of the diggers were and he was stunned to be told, that I now reported directly to the CO and "I have my orders sir."
He was livid. He couldn't go talk to the CO directly, but I could. He was going to get me somehow.
On the first day of camp I was having a shower when he came into the room and stole my keys. (I will prove this later in the story) Consequently I had to break into my new box to get to my gear and then keep it in the guardhouse for 24hr protection. It was quite inconvenient. And he pinched my house and car keys with them! I had another 14 days to work out how I would replace them all and so beyond inconvenience, it wasn't a disaster.
On the second last day I got a lift back to HQ and commandeered a room to develop the pics. They proved to be as good as I hoped and I had a shot of all 500 or so soldiers doing exciting things. Photographs they could never get otherwise. I knew I was going to be able to sell them all and prove my worth to the CO as well as making a sizeable donation to regimental funds. (R funds were used for present and future soldier welfare matters, helping them when they fall on hard times). So I felt pretty good about my contribution to the unit.
Years later I had a knock on the door from a different WO from a regular unit, asking if they could have my negs to decorate some recruiting drive!
My next little ego boost was that I was to be on camp when my first exam results were released. I called my mother to read out my results and they were better than I could have dreamed. I had to have her read them three times before I believed they were correct. I got another lift back to the camp, to present the CO with his copies and then I re-join intelligence soldiers so I could formally finish the camp with a parade.
At this point, despite feeling very good about myself I was exhausted. I had worked in the darkroom for 16 hours straight and had no sleep for 23 hours. I was with my group sitting on the grass waiting for the bus to take us back to HQ, when I saw Boundy approach. He had my keys in his hand, and was swinging them around on the comms cord. When he asked the group if anyone had lost a set of keys, I kept quiet. I just didn't want to speak to the arsehole. He asked again. louder. I ignored him even harder. Then he walked right up to me and asked me if they were mine.
He could only know they were mine because he stole them from me! I stood up and this exchange ensued:
Boundy: You are a failure aren't you private Hannah?
Me: No sir I am not.
Boundy: I say you are a failure. Me: I can't agree with you sir.
Boundy: If I say you are a failure, you are a failure private!
Me: I can't agree with that either sir. I have just presented 500 great photographs to the CO, and when my fellow soldiers see them, they will love them sir. Further, my trip to HQ got me my exam results and I can see now, my future is bright. On that basis, I cannot see how any objective assessment could find me a failure, sir.
Boundy: When we get back, you might find yourself on a charge.
Me: Would that be in front of the CO who is at this moment looking at all the great photographs I took for him?
Boundy: Watch your step soldier.
Me: Very well sir. He dropped the keys at my feet and left. If my comrades could have cheered, they would have. Every picture was sold.
Death and the Shark
If I see something in an instant, I replay in my head the sequence to make sense of or identify events. I suppose most of you do the same. For example, David J Zaharychuk, my first dive instructor turned Thai farmer, would attest to the possibility of the following. Once diving a beautiful coral wall I looked into the murk along the wall, my visibility range was probably 25m, when suddenly I saw the face of a big shark coming at me and then just as suddenly I saw its tail disappear, back from whence it came. I had no time for fear or shock, I was momentarily unmoved by it. Then it knocked me back and I swam wildly up to my buddy and made the shark symbol and the international fisherman's signal for 'bloody huge!'. For the rest of the dive I was playing it over and over in my head, trying to determine how close I came to death. My conclusion was the shark saw me before, or as I saw him and he turned about face to avoid the confrontation. I estimated size of his tail was about my shoulder height. Which would make him three or four meters long. That white face and shaped tail, it was a White Pointer, a Great White Shark. The most feared and hunted of all sharks, pointers are the ones The Discovery Channel makes the docos about.
At this point, I must cut the narrative and say I, in no way expect you to believe me about the size of the shark, or even the level of danger I was in. It is as I remember it and no more. I could, and probably am, wrong about both. Whereas I cannot imagine it was half that size, but if it was, it could have still taken an arm or leg. But would it? I always say that sharks don't attack divers, we are not their favourite food. The truth is that sometimes they do. But if road safety campaigners could get the road deaths down to these numbers, they would be ecstatic. Every diver I know or knew, would be disappointed not to see one where others did. They are extraordinarily beautiful animals, we just love to see them.
Now, of course it is just a memory and subject to my failing faculties. But it got added to one of those special memory categories reserved for life and death situations. At almost sixty years old I have faced death three times and lived! Each one was just as terrifying, but only in retrospect. There was no time for fear in the moment. All three times, I just watched, acted and waited to see what would happen.
[Oh and don't believe the myth that sharks have to keep swimming to breathe, I have seen one motionless for minutes on the sandy seabed. We divers were peering over the top of a rock and cursing our bubbles.]
At this point, I must cut the narrative and say I, in no way expect you to believe me about the size of the shark, or even the level of danger I was in. It is as I remember it and no more. I could, and probably am, wrong about both. Whereas I cannot imagine it was half that size, but if it was, it could have still taken an arm or leg. But would it? I always say that sharks don't attack divers, we are not their favourite food. The truth is that sometimes they do. But if road safety campaigners could get the road deaths down to these numbers, they would be ecstatic. Every diver I know or knew, would be disappointed not to see one where others did. They are extraordinarily beautiful animals, we just love to see them.
Now, of course it is just a memory and subject to my failing faculties. But it got added to one of those special memory categories reserved for life and death situations. At almost sixty years old I have faced death three times and lived! Each one was just as terrifying, but only in retrospect. There was no time for fear in the moment. All three times, I just watched, acted and waited to see what would happen.
[Oh and don't believe the myth that sharks have to keep swimming to breathe, I have seen one motionless for minutes on the sandy seabed. We divers were peering over the top of a rock and cursing our bubbles.]
The Passion of the Nun
At university I had a lecturer in Industrial law who would tell us stories in the break between hour long lectures. The only one I remember is how he met and married a catholic nun. He said that he caught her as she metaphorically jumped the convent wall and thereafter had to deal with 25 years of pent up passion!
Normal, perfectly normal.
I dropped the exchange student at school this morning and as I watched her walk to class one of her friends appeared wearing a complete, head to toe unicorn outfit. Perfectly normal day
Changing Behaviour
When asked advice on confronting a past nemesis I said this to a to a female sports journalist experiencing sexism at work.
I told her that the usual 3 step argument wont work :
i.e. X is wrong, you did X, you are wrong.
He'll get defensive and may just lash out.
I told her to lay out the offensive behaviour, then say,
When the other journos are making cracks like that, and you laugh along or just brush it off as a bit of fun, it makes me feel like you don't value my contribution, you don't care what offence this causes and you want to send a clear signal to women to stay away from this workplace and newspaper.
Now, I know you better than to think this is deliberate so can we do something here to move forward?"
The sexist remarks stopped forthwith and she got a raise.
In a nutshell, 1, behaviour 2, effects 3, move on with a positive step forward.
Mrs Me tells me that my inspired wisdom is pretty standard conflict resolution practice. Such is life.
I told her that the usual 3 step argument wont work :
i.e. X is wrong, you did X, you are wrong.
He'll get defensive and may just lash out.
I told her to lay out the offensive behaviour, then say,
When the other journos are making cracks like that, and you laugh along or just brush it off as a bit of fun, it makes me feel like you don't value my contribution, you don't care what offence this causes and you want to send a clear signal to women to stay away from this workplace and newspaper.
Now, I know you better than to think this is deliberate so can we do something here to move forward?"
The sexist remarks stopped forthwith and she got a raise.
In a nutshell, 1, behaviour 2, effects 3, move on with a positive step forward.
Mrs Me tells me that my inspired wisdom is pretty standard conflict resolution practice. Such is life.
Breakfast in America
I have done quite a lot of travelling and a fair bit of that is in the USA. So far I have been to 20 US states plus DC and I have some observations to share.
On my first trip there, I was in Louisiana and I was getting sick of eating fried foods. The restaurants I could afford to eat in, seemed to do little else. One morning I was looking at a menu and saw, an ad - "2 eggs any style $5". So I asked the waitress for poached eggs on toast. She looked at me as if I had asked for boiled elephant trunk and went away. On her return she said the chef couldn't do that. Thinking to myself about what sort of chef can't boil water, I opted for scrambled. I happened to be passing the kitchen while he was cooking my breakfast and watched him prepare it.
He cracked two eggs on the griddle - yep he was frying them- and then got the scraper thing he used to move the shit called 'scrapple' around and aggressively chopped up the fried egg and plopped the resultant mess onto a plate.
I have no idea whether this is a normal variant of scrambled, but it tasted as bland and ordinary as the fried stuff I have had for the previous week. It bore no resemblance to the light fluffy yellow stuff I expect from scrambled eggs and didn't satisfy my need to not eat fried for a day or so.
The next day I decided I'd have some fruit and cereal, so I headed for a supermarket. What an eye opener. There was an entire wall given to bread, and a huge bank of milk products with the biggest plastic bottles of milk I had ever seen. Surely the milk would sour before a family reached the bottom? And the varieties amazed me. I felt like asking a staff member (if there was one to be found) "Which one is just milk?" I found the cereal and went off looking for fruit. Now this wasn't some ma and pa corner store, this was a big supermarket. There was zero fruit anywhere and the vegetable department could fit in my bedroom. There was nothing to cook with! Just stuff to open, thaw or microwave, boxes and boxes of processed food.
Sometime later I stayed with a friend in Las Vegas (oops I forgot Nevada, 21) and I was in her kitchen cleaning her pistol (as you do) when I noticed that the cooktop was remarkably clean, pristine even. A glance into the oven showed it had plastic on the racks and some paperwork as well, manuals and guarantees I suppose. So I said "New stove?" And then she told me it was new when she moved in 2 years ago. It had never been used. Just about then it was time to feed her six year old. A TV dinner was taken from the freezer (also the biggest I had seen outside a pub) and microwaved, a plastic cup of some plastic dessert was added with plastic knife, fork and spoon (which she inexplicably called 'silverware') and that was her dinner.
We had frozen pizza.
Sometime later I was to have a heated discussion with another woman who insisted that unpacking a frozen pizza and heating in the microwave was 'cooking'.
By far the best breakfast I had in America was in the Las Vegas casino, Circus Circus. The chef made omelettes in front of you with all the fresh ingredients you could want at a ridiculously low price. Dinner and lunches are a whole new story. :)
On my first trip there, I was in Louisiana and I was getting sick of eating fried foods. The restaurants I could afford to eat in, seemed to do little else. One morning I was looking at a menu and saw, an ad - "2 eggs any style $5". So I asked the waitress for poached eggs on toast. She looked at me as if I had asked for boiled elephant trunk and went away. On her return she said the chef couldn't do that. Thinking to myself about what sort of chef can't boil water, I opted for scrambled. I happened to be passing the kitchen while he was cooking my breakfast and watched him prepare it.
He cracked two eggs on the griddle - yep he was frying them- and then got the scraper thing he used to move the shit called 'scrapple' around and aggressively chopped up the fried egg and plopped the resultant mess onto a plate.
I have no idea whether this is a normal variant of scrambled, but it tasted as bland and ordinary as the fried stuff I have had for the previous week. It bore no resemblance to the light fluffy yellow stuff I expect from scrambled eggs and didn't satisfy my need to not eat fried for a day or so.
The next day I decided I'd have some fruit and cereal, so I headed for a supermarket. What an eye opener. There was an entire wall given to bread, and a huge bank of milk products with the biggest plastic bottles of milk I had ever seen. Surely the milk would sour before a family reached the bottom? And the varieties amazed me. I felt like asking a staff member (if there was one to be found) "Which one is just milk?" I found the cereal and went off looking for fruit. Now this wasn't some ma and pa corner store, this was a big supermarket. There was zero fruit anywhere and the vegetable department could fit in my bedroom. There was nothing to cook with! Just stuff to open, thaw or microwave, boxes and boxes of processed food.
Sometime later I stayed with a friend in Las Vegas (oops I forgot Nevada, 21) and I was in her kitchen cleaning her pistol (as you do) when I noticed that the cooktop was remarkably clean, pristine even. A glance into the oven showed it had plastic on the racks and some paperwork as well, manuals and guarantees I suppose. So I said "New stove?" And then she told me it was new when she moved in 2 years ago. It had never been used. Just about then it was time to feed her six year old. A TV dinner was taken from the freezer (also the biggest I had seen outside a pub) and microwaved, a plastic cup of some plastic dessert was added with plastic knife, fork and spoon (which she inexplicably called 'silverware') and that was her dinner.
We had frozen pizza.
Sometime later I was to have a heated discussion with another woman who insisted that unpacking a frozen pizza and heating in the microwave was 'cooking'.
By far the best breakfast I had in America was in the Las Vegas casino, Circus Circus. The chef made omelettes in front of you with all the fresh ingredients you could want at a ridiculously low price. Dinner and lunches are a whole new story. :)
Being mean to the French girl.
Sometimes I am mean. Our exchange student is watching Lord of the Rings trilogy and is about half way through. She keeps asking what will happen, and I wont tell. - Mostly because I don't remember the details. After one further lot of questions, I looked at the screen and said "Did you find out which one is gay yet?" "It's Sam isn't it? I think it's Sam!"
Cheese makers in Salt Lake City
I have visited Salt Lake City, twice, and found it extremely weird. On entering the compound ( I don't know what else you would call it) which is at the corner of that uniquely American address of first and first, I was greeted by a pretty young woman, who offered to show me around.
We walked and talked and she showed me the various buildings and explained their function. In one there was a Book of Mormon on a little shelf. She was showing it to me, and in the introduction there is a pic of a clay tablet with some writing on it. Now, I cannot remember the exact claim the book made about the pic, but it was clearly Assyrian cuneiform, in style at least, and not what she or it claimed. When i pointed this out she metaphorically stuck her fingers in her ears and said 'lalalalala' The cognitive dissonance is strong in this one.
The strangest building was circular and 2 or 3 stories high. Inside is hollow and a ramp winds its way around the inside of the building to the top floor. There on the top floor is a humongous statue of Jesus and a loudspeaker repeats the sermon on the mount, over and over again. The walls are sky blue with fluffy clouds dotted around. The blue sky gets darker and darker as you get higher until it is black and little stars appear. The idea is that that we are ascending into heaven. However, the clouds don't stop. They actually painted clouds in space! And not the clouds you see in Hubble pics, the same fluffy white ones you see in a Salt Lake City sky.
She left when I started laughing and it echoed through the building and drowned out Jesus talking about the cheese makers.
We walked and talked and she showed me the various buildings and explained their function. In one there was a Book of Mormon on a little shelf. She was showing it to me, and in the introduction there is a pic of a clay tablet with some writing on it. Now, I cannot remember the exact claim the book made about the pic, but it was clearly Assyrian cuneiform, in style at least, and not what she or it claimed. When i pointed this out she metaphorically stuck her fingers in her ears and said 'lalalalala' The cognitive dissonance is strong in this one.
The strangest building was circular and 2 or 3 stories high. Inside is hollow and a ramp winds its way around the inside of the building to the top floor. There on the top floor is a humongous statue of Jesus and a loudspeaker repeats the sermon on the mount, over and over again. The walls are sky blue with fluffy clouds dotted around. The blue sky gets darker and darker as you get higher until it is black and little stars appear. The idea is that that we are ascending into heaven. However, the clouds don't stop. They actually painted clouds in space! And not the clouds you see in Hubble pics, the same fluffy white ones you see in a Salt Lake City sky.
She left when I started laughing and it echoed through the building and drowned out Jesus talking about the cheese makers.
Things that annoy me #562
Roadwork speed signs.
I get that we should slow down when people are on the road working. Totally reasonable. What I object to is signs and cones everywhere when there are no workers in sight. They leave the signs up even over the weekend!
They should be fined, $1000 for every hour that unnecessary signs are in place.
That is all HTH.
Words...
Most will know that I love English. I love its twists and turns, its obscure rules and its ability to grow and change according to the needs of us, its speakers. From time to time I discover little puzzles like this: The word 'décolletage' means women's cleavage yet the word 'decollate' means to behead! And 'collate' means to put in correct order.
God is a Muslim?
Most of you will know that I am a strident, objectionable, self confessed, incorrigible and rude atheist, so the following might surprise you. I can present scientifically valid evidence that if there is a god, He is muslim. Do a google search on "Lightning strikes church", then another on "Lightning strikes mosque" Include the quotation marks and note the numbers of church strikes versus the number of mosque strikes.
Annoying Letters
What to do if you get a solicitation letter you don't want. This is what I wrote to a church in a returned unstamped letter. I never got another one!
Dear Sir/Madam,
Thank you for your letter of [date]. I have scanned its contents and believe my services can be of great use to a publication like this.
My Rates are: For basic editing $150 per hour.
To review and make comments upon the English and style, $400 per hour.
To review and comment upon the content, correct errors of fact, logical errors and tropes. $600. per hour.
A discounted rate applies for all three services, $1000 per hour, save $150 every hour!
Any further unsolicited letters from you, will be considered to be an acceptance of a binding contract to do all three levels of service and you will be charged accordingly.
Sincerely,
Paul Hannah
Editor
Dear Sir/Madam,
Thank you for your letter of [date]. I have scanned its contents and believe my services can be of great use to a publication like this.
My Rates are: For basic editing $150 per hour.
To review and make comments upon the English and style, $400 per hour.
To review and comment upon the content, correct errors of fact, logical errors and tropes. $600. per hour.
A discounted rate applies for all three services, $1000 per hour, save $150 every hour!
Any further unsolicited letters from you, will be considered to be an acceptance of a binding contract to do all three levels of service and you will be charged accordingly.
Sincerely,
Paul Hannah
Editor
Manners at Dinnertime
It occurred to me that the reason it was deemed inappropriate to discuss religion at dinner, is that it isn't very decorous when atheists, upon hearing someone's sincere religious views, snort soup out of their noses in paroxysms of laughter.
Treasure's little Treasure
I have recently read a few books on the British response to Hitler's spies in Britain. Every single German spy landed on the shores of Britain was caught by the ruthless efficiency of Mi6 and Mi5. The first couple of spies were caught within days of their arrival, doing silly things like asking for cider in a Northern pub with a dodgy 5 pound note and a foreign accent. All of these spies were very quickly given a binary choice, work for us or die.
From this point on Mi5 were in direct communication with Hitler's intelligence community. They knew when and where new spies were coming and knew what they were coming to get. If you can discover what your enemy wants to know, you then discover what he does not know. Then he can be told a very big lie. It has been said (at least by me) that the purpose of a pro active intelligence service is to cloud the truth and present a credible lie in its place. Probably the biggest lie they got Hitler to believe was the D-Day landing site.
Normandy beaches were the obvious alternative to the shortest route, direct to Calais. Hitler was convinced that the landings in Normandy were a feint, the real attack would come later at Pas De Calais. It was days before they discovered the truth, and as a result the Normandy landings were a great success, and began a retreat for Hitler that was to continue almost uninterrupted, all the way to Berlin.
The whole secret was nearly betrayed by one of the double agents codenamed Treasure, who was constantly requesting her dog be brought in from Gibralta, and serious consideration was given to sending a submarine to pick it up. In the end they probably arranged for its assassination, she certainly believed its death was arranged by Mi6. Distraught, she was apparently about to reveal the D-Day secrets to the Germans by omitting a letter sequence put there to ensure it was she that was transmitting.
Treasure must have weighed the consequential death of tens of thousands of men against her puppy and thought better of it. If she had omitted the word the Germans would have known everything she sent previously was a lie and all of her fellow spies would be compromised too. From this any idiot would be able to figure out that the secret was Normandy. Free civilisation was momentarily precariously balanced upon the fate of a little French dog.
From this point on Mi5 were in direct communication with Hitler's intelligence community. They knew when and where new spies were coming and knew what they were coming to get. If you can discover what your enemy wants to know, you then discover what he does not know. Then he can be told a very big lie. It has been said (at least by me) that the purpose of a pro active intelligence service is to cloud the truth and present a credible lie in its place. Probably the biggest lie they got Hitler to believe was the D-Day landing site.
Normandy beaches were the obvious alternative to the shortest route, direct to Calais. Hitler was convinced that the landings in Normandy were a feint, the real attack would come later at Pas De Calais. It was days before they discovered the truth, and as a result the Normandy landings were a great success, and began a retreat for Hitler that was to continue almost uninterrupted, all the way to Berlin.
The whole secret was nearly betrayed by one of the double agents codenamed Treasure, who was constantly requesting her dog be brought in from Gibralta, and serious consideration was given to sending a submarine to pick it up. In the end they probably arranged for its assassination, she certainly believed its death was arranged by Mi6. Distraught, she was apparently about to reveal the D-Day secrets to the Germans by omitting a letter sequence put there to ensure it was she that was transmitting.
Treasure must have weighed the consequential death of tens of thousands of men against her puppy and thought better of it. If she had omitted the word the Germans would have known everything she sent previously was a lie and all of her fellow spies would be compromised too. From this any idiot would be able to figure out that the secret was Normandy. Free civilisation was momentarily precariously balanced upon the fate of a little French dog.
Acceptance
This month it is thirty years since my first headache. I have finally accepted defeat. My headaches have beaten me. I have been collecting frequent flyer points to use on a round the world trip, visiting some of my favourite places (Chicago, New Orleans, Vancouver, Rome, Lucerne, Egypt, Normandy, Scotland, Bangkok ) and a few new ones; St Petersburg, Oslo, Copenhagen, Iceland, Stalingrad, Berlin, Angkor Wat, Oshkosh, Alaska) and puffins. I want to see wild puffins. Now I know, I will never be able to spend more than a few days overseas at a time. If I ever get my observatory built I will cash all my points in for a business class trip to San Francisco. I'll visit my friends Allen and Julia, buy some new telescope gear and come home again. Never to travel overseas again. That might not seem much of a sacrifice to some, but in the Australian culture, travel is an integral part. It will be missed.
I have probably spent over $100k on MRIs EEGs scans x-rays and seen well over 100 doctors everywhere from Spain to New Orleans. I have tried every drug and treatment suggested. NOTHING works. Please, I am very happy to know that others were cured by putting an icecube on their ear lobes, or taking this drug or that neck adjustment. But it won't work for me. How do I know? In thirty years I have either thought of it myself (eg botox), or tried it - I am not going to list the drugs here, there are too many to count. "And what about giving stuff up?" I have tried eliminating alcohol, caffeine, chocolate, and processed foods; nothing works. It is not that I don't appreciate suggestions, I do. But I have tried it already. Honestly. I tried some counselling once. I said clearly in the beginning of the session, "Please don't suggest a cure. I just want help in dealing with it" Within 20 min, she was telling me what cured her aunt. I walked out.
Giving up and accepting medical reality is a sign of failure in our culture, how many inspiring stories of people fighting against great medical challenges do we read? But as I heard one fellow say, "My spinal cord is completely severed. All the willpower in the world won't mend it. Nothing known can.
Accepting it and moving on, is all I can and will do." I accept it. I will now try to move on.
I have probably spent over $100k on MRIs EEGs scans x-rays and seen well over 100 doctors everywhere from Spain to New Orleans. I have tried every drug and treatment suggested. NOTHING works. Please, I am very happy to know that others were cured by putting an icecube on their ear lobes, or taking this drug or that neck adjustment. But it won't work for me. How do I know? In thirty years I have either thought of it myself (eg botox), or tried it - I am not going to list the drugs here, there are too many to count. "And what about giving stuff up?" I have tried eliminating alcohol, caffeine, chocolate, and processed foods; nothing works. It is not that I don't appreciate suggestions, I do. But I have tried it already. Honestly. I tried some counselling once. I said clearly in the beginning of the session, "Please don't suggest a cure. I just want help in dealing with it" Within 20 min, she was telling me what cured her aunt. I walked out.
Giving up and accepting medical reality is a sign of failure in our culture, how many inspiring stories of people fighting against great medical challenges do we read? But as I heard one fellow say, "My spinal cord is completely severed. All the willpower in the world won't mend it. Nothing known can.
Accepting it and moving on, is all I can and will do." I accept it. I will now try to move on.
Pervy Krishna
It seems when the Lord Krishna sees young girls bathing naked in a river with "a thin waist" his inner pervert comes out. "Upon hearing this appeal (to be not forced to stand naked before him one at a time) by the unmarried gopis, Krishna answered, "My dear girls, if you think that you are My eternal servitors and you are always ready to execute My order, then My request is that, with your smiling faces, you please come here alone, one after another, and take away your garments. If you do not come here, however, and if you lodge complaints to My father, I shall not care anyway, for I know My father is old and cannot take any action against Me."" http://www.harekrsna.de/stealing-cloth.htm
Unobtanium
One of my young relatives said to me once that clearly the bible creation story was true, as all of the elements in the human body were in the earth's crust. The next step to the argument is to say that clearly god made us out of dust so we are composed of the same stuff. I didn't jump on the point, but should have. This is obviously something that was taught her as a response or shoring up her beliefs. What would they expect us to be made of? We make our bodies from things we eat. Everything we eat comes from sunlight and dirt. Of course we will be made of the matter in the earth. If we were made of some of the more exotic, none natural and unstable elements at the end of the periodic table, then we would have a miracle!
Caning kids
When I look back on my school years, I think I must have some multiple personality disorder, consider my discipline record. Until I was ten I lived in England, I was only in trouble once as I recall, and it was more like a teacher explaining to me why my behaviour was wrong and that it should never happen again. It didn't.
On arriving in Adelaide, I met my first supreme arsehole. Duggan. Probably the worst teacher I have ever known. He split the class up into Australians and migrants and made jokes about excluding black people from Australia and worse. He had a cupboard full of canes and used one of them on me each and every week. His little sadistic ritual, was to have the boy (girls were never caned) select his own cane from the cupboard. If Duggan thought the cane was too thick, the child, the ten year old child, was sent back for another. Thin canes hurt more. My mother gave him an earful on my last day after seeing the red welts on my hands and fingers.
I started High School in Victoria and thoroughly enjoyed my time there. I had good friends, lots of Air Force brats like me, all obsessed with aviation like me. The move to Ipswich in Queensland took me to Bremer High School. I must have liked it because, we moved house shortly afterwards and I travelled a ridiculously long way to and from school. Sometimes I walked. When Armstrong and Aldrin walked on the moon, I ran.
I was caned on two occasions at Bremer High School. Once as a new boy I tagged along as some other kids took off early from a sports afternoon. The principal caught us, and three days later caned all five of us. The second caning is a longer story. We gave ourselves different names in the group we ran in. Not nick names, new first names. My best friend was called Boris, and to this day 45 years later, he calls me Gus. Anyway, Miss Wedd was our English, English teacher. She was known for her picky and idiosyncratic, ways. She once corrected a friend for saying a TV personality was 'gorgeous'. "No he isn't, he's white!" She insisted.
On this particular day she asked us to write down the names of ten characters from Macbeth. I started writing and wasn't counting, so I ended up with twelve names. Boris and I marked each other's list. Boris ticked (US checked) each name and signed 'Boris' after each one. We had to show hands as to who got 10, 9, 8 and so on. I being a smart arse, didn't put my hand up and fluke of flukes, she noticed. On inspecting our lists Miss Wedd gave us a choice, write an essay on Lady Macbeth or see the principal. I would have been happy to write the essay, but Boris didn't like Macbeth as much as I did. So we chose the principal. Hadn't we just exceeded her expectations and done even better than she asked for? What could he object to? As she was writing the note for the principal, she said, "You can hand the essay in on Monday". When I objected she spoke the words as she added to the note. "Paul seems to think that this is unfair."
Mr Bell the principal, caned Boris once and me twice on the right hand, I know which hand it was, as to this day the knuckle on my right thumb aches occasionally. And I still think it was unfair. I was told later that when it was proposed that I be a prefect, that I caused a huge rift amongst the teachers. A third of them arguing strongly for, a third strongly against and a bemused remaining third wondering who this Paul Hannah is.
On arriving in Adelaide, I met my first supreme arsehole. Duggan. Probably the worst teacher I have ever known. He split the class up into Australians and migrants and made jokes about excluding black people from Australia and worse. He had a cupboard full of canes and used one of them on me each and every week. His little sadistic ritual, was to have the boy (girls were never caned) select his own cane from the cupboard. If Duggan thought the cane was too thick, the child, the ten year old child, was sent back for another. Thin canes hurt more. My mother gave him an earful on my last day after seeing the red welts on my hands and fingers.
I started High School in Victoria and thoroughly enjoyed my time there. I had good friends, lots of Air Force brats like me, all obsessed with aviation like me. The move to Ipswich in Queensland took me to Bremer High School. I must have liked it because, we moved house shortly afterwards and I travelled a ridiculously long way to and from school. Sometimes I walked. When Armstrong and Aldrin walked on the moon, I ran.
I was caned on two occasions at Bremer High School. Once as a new boy I tagged along as some other kids took off early from a sports afternoon. The principal caught us, and three days later caned all five of us. The second caning is a longer story. We gave ourselves different names in the group we ran in. Not nick names, new first names. My best friend was called Boris, and to this day 45 years later, he calls me Gus. Anyway, Miss Wedd was our English, English teacher. She was known for her picky and idiosyncratic, ways. She once corrected a friend for saying a TV personality was 'gorgeous'. "No he isn't, he's white!" She insisted.
On this particular day she asked us to write down the names of ten characters from Macbeth. I started writing and wasn't counting, so I ended up with twelve names. Boris and I marked each other's list. Boris ticked (US checked) each name and signed 'Boris' after each one. We had to show hands as to who got 10, 9, 8 and so on. I being a smart arse, didn't put my hand up and fluke of flukes, she noticed. On inspecting our lists Miss Wedd gave us a choice, write an essay on Lady Macbeth or see the principal. I would have been happy to write the essay, but Boris didn't like Macbeth as much as I did. So we chose the principal. Hadn't we just exceeded her expectations and done even better than she asked for? What could he object to? As she was writing the note for the principal, she said, "You can hand the essay in on Monday". When I objected she spoke the words as she added to the note. "Paul seems to think that this is unfair."
Mr Bell the principal, caned Boris once and me twice on the right hand, I know which hand it was, as to this day the knuckle on my right thumb aches occasionally. And I still think it was unfair. I was told later that when it was proposed that I be a prefect, that I caused a huge rift amongst the teachers. A third of them arguing strongly for, a third strongly against and a bemused remaining third wondering who this Paul Hannah is.
Sunday, March 30, 2014
Killing a King
William the Conqueror was a particularly evil bastard. One year Vikings wintered in the north of England, the residents had no choice in the matter, but when W found out he ordered the destruction of the entire area. Every house, farm, building was destroyed and every crop and farm animal was killed. For twenty years the place was called 'The Wasteland' The people either died by the sword then but many simply starved.
He had an interesting death. He was doing a bit of village burning in France, when his horse stood on an ember and reared. The saddle pommel, punched him in the gut and ruptured his peritoneum. It got infected and over many days of total agony, he died. His body was so distended that he couldn't fit in a coffin so they made a special big box for his enormous infected gut and the rest of him. During the service ( I think it was at Bayeux) his body exploded and the mourners and cathedral were covered in bits of Bill and pus. .
His death illustrated an important disadvantage to being a medieval king. When two comrades went into battle, they would often make a pact that if one was impaled by a spear or arrow, the other would pull it out. This gave a reasonably quick death from blood loss rather than the long agonising death from infection. Kings were at a serious disadvantage in battle if they were wounded. The Medieval universe had God at the top and kings just below him. God appointed Kings and determined when and how they would die. Pulling the arrow out was effectively killing your king and was just about the biggest sin you could commit. So they were condemned to die and die slowly.
King Henry II of France, was one who died horribly because of this belief. He was jousting and the jagged end of a broken lance pierced his head at the eyeball. It stayed there till he died, ten days later. This principle also influenced the death of another, the bisexual King Edward II. His killers placed a mattress on him and threw themselves on it, then a hot poker was shoved in his 'fundament' (rectum) till he died. His screams were legendary. But his body could be displayed markless, so none could be seen to have killed him.
He had an interesting death. He was doing a bit of village burning in France, when his horse stood on an ember and reared. The saddle pommel, punched him in the gut and ruptured his peritoneum. It got infected and over many days of total agony, he died. His body was so distended that he couldn't fit in a coffin so they made a special big box for his enormous infected gut and the rest of him. During the service ( I think it was at Bayeux) his body exploded and the mourners and cathedral were covered in bits of Bill and pus. .
His death illustrated an important disadvantage to being a medieval king. When two comrades went into battle, they would often make a pact that if one was impaled by a spear or arrow, the other would pull it out. This gave a reasonably quick death from blood loss rather than the long agonising death from infection. Kings were at a serious disadvantage in battle if they were wounded. The Medieval universe had God at the top and kings just below him. God appointed Kings and determined when and how they would die. Pulling the arrow out was effectively killing your king and was just about the biggest sin you could commit. So they were condemned to die and die slowly.
King Henry II of France, was one who died horribly because of this belief. He was jousting and the jagged end of a broken lance pierced his head at the eyeball. It stayed there till he died, ten days later. This principle also influenced the death of another, the bisexual King Edward II. His killers placed a mattress on him and threw themselves on it, then a hot poker was shoved in his 'fundament' (rectum) till he died. His screams were legendary. But his body could be displayed markless, so none could be seen to have killed him.
Supernatural
Believing in anything supernatural is like putting a hood over your face. It feels snuggly, warm and safe, But you can't see the wonder we see, you can't see the subtleties of it all and it can kill you or people around you.
Smith vs Miller
Trivia note: Smith may be the most common Anglo-Saxon name and most will know it comes from the profession of blacksmith. But there were as many millers as smiths, so why isn't 'Miller' as common a name? The answer is that smiths were known for their hard work, but flour millers on the other hand were regarded as dishonest traders who cheated poor farmers. So few people wanted to carry the name around.
I am sure it is not genetic Korrine Simone Miller!
I am sure it is not genetic Korrine Simone Miller!
Words have meanings.
Dear arty people who spruik on the radio. Words have meanings. Just adding words into your regular sentences just makes you look like an idiot. Case in point. Woman who is sort of a hyper arty architect starts rabbiting on and throws in the phrase "The irreducible complexity of cities." This does not mean 'Cities are complex places with lots of small parts making the whole function.' It means that if you removed a single building or even a hot dog stand, the city would cease to function. Clearly this is bullshit.
Say anything more like it and your talking privileges will be revoked.
That is all.
Say anything more like it and your talking privileges will be revoked.
That is all.
Betelgeuse will explode!
Great Caesar's Ghost! It would be wonderful to have lived to see a local star explode. What a sight! Seeing one of the most energetic explosions anywhere in the universe blasting most of itself off into space. This will create shockwaves that power through the gas clouds of nebulae kicking off new stars and creating the vast array of elements that populate our periodic table.. This star will shine bright in our daytime and most people on the planet will be able to see it. And it won't just be us watching. Every civilization in the galaxy will turn to view this wonder in our back yard. Some far more advanced than us, will stare at this marvel. But none will be as thrilled, as fascinated and chocka block full of gratitude, than I. Please, please Betelgeuse blow 650 years ago!
We will remember them.
This Thursday Mrs Me and I will get up early (on a public holiday) and drive down to the local village. We will watch a parade doubtless with a few old men and the local scouts bringing up the numbers. When they stop at the war memorial, the last post will be played by a privileged scout and someone will recite the ode. A few will wipe tears and wreaths will be laid. A few moment's silence and we will return to our lives, until next year when the call will go out to remember again. At the going down of the sun, And in the morning, we will remember them.
A Country full of Statues
Yesterday we 'celebrated' Anzac day. For non-Australians this may be difficult to come to grips with. It is a holiday that many use to go to the beach or have a barbeque, or just enjoy themselves. But it is more than that. Much more.
If you just looked at a list of dates and battles, you would think that Australia is a warlike nation. Then if you did a tour of country towns, this impression would be confirmed when in most you would see a statue of a lone soldier standing guard over a long list of names. Each one a heartbroken family, each one a shattered life. Most commemorating a grave in a foreign land. Every Anzac day people across Australia, New Zealand and at outposts around the world, gather around these memorials at dawn and remember the fallen.
The legend began nearly a hundred years ago on 25, April 1915, when our soldiers were included in an invasion force to try and take a peninsular in Turkey (what we now call Gallipoli) and then move on Constantinople (Now Istanbul) itself. The strategic importance of the aims of the invasion would take much more than I am able to write down, here or elsewhere, many books have been written about it, no doubt there is more to come. Suffice to say, it was a stuff up from the start.
We were landed upon the wrong beach, where the Turks held the high ground and well prepared positions. Soldiers fight harder when they fight on their own land and the Turks fought very hard for theirs. The command from the top was "Dig, dig, dig until you are safe" and that was what we did. Consequently, even today, Australian soldiers are called 'Diggers'. Eventually, as in many battles and campaigns in WWI the stalemate of trench warfare, just killed and killed, with little or no ground being gained as a result. The decision was finally made to withdraw. As an aside, only the enemy retreats in a battle, your own side, withdraws.
We were left with a PR nightmare, Australians fought and lost the campaign. Our men (and a few women) were killed for nothing. The newspapers got to work, reframing Gallipoli into the crucible of warfare where our new nation (we were 14 years old at the time) 'came of age' and took their place alongside the nations of the earth. We left our dead behind. And in exchange we got the statues. Those country town statues are all many families had to focus their mourning. Every one I pass, I give them a salute, and say a mental 'thank you'. When on foot, I try to read the names, It seems a pointless gesture, but I can do nothing else and my conscience will not permit me to do less.
So yes, many just go to the beach, but the crowds at the morning services continue to grow. Children march with their grandparent's medals, the old men look at the thinning ranks of the survivors and people like me, people like me, deal with the fact that these heroes fought for my freedom and all we can do is read, remember and honour their names.
If you just looked at a list of dates and battles, you would think that Australia is a warlike nation. Then if you did a tour of country towns, this impression would be confirmed when in most you would see a statue of a lone soldier standing guard over a long list of names. Each one a heartbroken family, each one a shattered life. Most commemorating a grave in a foreign land. Every Anzac day people across Australia, New Zealand and at outposts around the world, gather around these memorials at dawn and remember the fallen.
The legend began nearly a hundred years ago on 25, April 1915, when our soldiers were included in an invasion force to try and take a peninsular in Turkey (what we now call Gallipoli) and then move on Constantinople (Now Istanbul) itself. The strategic importance of the aims of the invasion would take much more than I am able to write down, here or elsewhere, many books have been written about it, no doubt there is more to come. Suffice to say, it was a stuff up from the start.
We were landed upon the wrong beach, where the Turks held the high ground and well prepared positions. Soldiers fight harder when they fight on their own land and the Turks fought very hard for theirs. The command from the top was "Dig, dig, dig until you are safe" and that was what we did. Consequently, even today, Australian soldiers are called 'Diggers'. Eventually, as in many battles and campaigns in WWI the stalemate of trench warfare, just killed and killed, with little or no ground being gained as a result. The decision was finally made to withdraw. As an aside, only the enemy retreats in a battle, your own side, withdraws.
We were left with a PR nightmare, Australians fought and lost the campaign. Our men (and a few women) were killed for nothing. The newspapers got to work, reframing Gallipoli into the crucible of warfare where our new nation (we were 14 years old at the time) 'came of age' and took their place alongside the nations of the earth. We left our dead behind. And in exchange we got the statues. Those country town statues are all many families had to focus their mourning. Every one I pass, I give them a salute, and say a mental 'thank you'. When on foot, I try to read the names, It seems a pointless gesture, but I can do nothing else and my conscience will not permit me to do less.
So yes, many just go to the beach, but the crowds at the morning services continue to grow. Children march with their grandparent's medals, the old men look at the thinning ranks of the survivors and people like me, people like me, deal with the fact that these heroes fought for my freedom and all we can do is read, remember and honour their names.
Give a hand
I have just read about this amazing program. These folk send you the bits of an artificial hand. You put it together and then it and a pic of you, goes to a person in a poor country who can't afford it. http://www.facebook.com/pages/Helping-Hands-Program/181401972011602?fref=ts
What shall I name it?
I made this from scratch last night. I invented the recipe and even if I say so myself, it tastes pretty good. Fill your blender with ripe tomatoes. Add, some finely chopped basil leaves, a couple of cubes of vegie stock, 2 teaspoons of sugar, a quarter cup of balsamic vinegar, two sachets of tomato paste, some salt, 1/2 teaspoon of chilli powder, and lots of cracked pepper. Blend till smooth. Put some oil in a big saucepan and add some garlic and two finely chopped onions. Cook onions and garlic till the onions are soft and add the mixture. Add a cup of water to the empty blender and swish around. (swish is the technical term we chefs use) pour into the saucepan and heat then simmer for a bit, serve with parsley and toast.
Bastard Hunters
Bastards. How many of these beautiful creatures were shot merely for the pathetic egos of hunters. Actually 'hunters' is probably a bit grand for these uncivilised morons, 'cold blooded killers of beautiful creatures' might be a step or two up for them as well. Social cretins? To be truly human is to walk gently through the world. To recognise that to live a life constructively, with as little detriment to our fellow animals and each other, as possible. This is behaviour we should have left behind on the savannah, we should have grown out of it as a society before today. We should do better at convincing our fellow primates, that killing for fun, is a BAD thing. It is bad for them, it is bad for us, and of course, it is bad for the animals.
The Grass is Evil
Thorstein Veblen was the fellow that coined the term "conspicuous consumption", but I remember him every time I see my lawn. He said that the function of a lawn was to tell passers by that the householder is so rich that they can afford to have this perfectly viable stretch of ground and do absolutely nothing useful with it.
Dangerous oranges
Sometimes the most seemingly innocuous information can be beneficial in wartime. In 1944 the Americans discovered they need not risk the lives of the French Resistance to discover if the transport links with Spain were still open. All they had to do was find out the price of Spanish oranges in Paris. When the links were cut, the prices went up, when the price went down, it was time to bomb the bridges again! Can you imagine what went through the mind of the resistance fighters when they were regularly asked to provide the cost of oranges?
Romance is dead
On this anniversary I would like to challenge the notion, widely held, that I am as romantic as an old dishcloth. I offer two anecdotes in my defence. Firstly let me say that I love my wife and am very happy. Nothing herein is to be construed as criticism of her, explicit or implied. (I didn't spend all those years with lawyers for nothing!)
Anecdote 1. In 2000 I was touring European battlefields with my 70 year old father. and we were approaching Paris when I had a thought. I rang Mrs Me and suggested she fly to join us, we could have a week in Paris in the spring time. Lovely. She said she couldn't go to Paris as she had agreed to go to Stradbroke Island. For non Queenslanders, Straddie is nice enough, but it ain't Paris, in any season.
Anecdote 2 Yesterday I suggested we take a few days off and fly to Uluru (Ayers Rock to Foreigners). We could have dinner out in the desert on the Sounds of Silence tour and just enjoy the spectacle of the sun setting over the rock. the champers and the food. Nah. She's not going there for a weekend, besides, we have been there already.
Anecdote 1. In 2000 I was touring European battlefields with my 70 year old father. and we were approaching Paris when I had a thought. I rang Mrs Me and suggested she fly to join us, we could have a week in Paris in the spring time. Lovely. She said she couldn't go to Paris as she had agreed to go to Stradbroke Island. For non Queenslanders, Straddie is nice enough, but it ain't Paris, in any season.
Anecdote 2 Yesterday I suggested we take a few days off and fly to Uluru (Ayers Rock to Foreigners). We could have dinner out in the desert on the Sounds of Silence tour and just enjoy the spectacle of the sun setting over the rock. the champers and the food. Nah. She's not going there for a weekend, besides, we have been there already.
Racism and Canasta
Just wondering... When playing Canasta, when one gets a consecutive run of seven cards all of the same suit and colour, is it racist to call it a 'natural'?
Self defence measures
On the way to the hardware shop Mrs Me stopped me and complained about my raggy shirt. I pointed out that it was a self defence measure and she has convinced me that I am possibly the most attractive man around and as such I am liable to be pounced on by love starved women everywhere. The raggy shirt dulls the edge of my attractiveness and keeps the women away. It seems to have worked. I was unmolested and made it home safely.
Phew!
Phew!
Burning the Bombs
Oh er.. just before I crash, I heard a little item on the ABC Radio National today... Readers may remember that in the middle of the last century, the Brits sent down to South Australia, a couple of those big nuclear bombs and blew them up out in the desert. Actually there were eleven and they made nine of them go bang. Where are the other two? De nuclearized and in some museum somewhere? Nope. This bloke was told to put them on a truck go out into the desert, burn and bury them. They are still there. 12 feet under a South Australian desert. burnt, (how does one burn a bomb encased in steel?)
Football or flying?
For a while I delivered car parts around Brisbane's south.
Most of the people I delivered to were rude, dismissive and surprisingly arrogant. One woman was different, she always had a smile and we'd chat a bit. On school holidays, the boss lets her bring her kids in and I'd try to say hello to them too. One day I could see she had been crying. Her son had a knee injury some time ago and she was told his limp was permanent. He was not a great scholar his main love was sports and now he is to be permanently sidelined.
When I went home, I dug out a couple of books and a DVD and took them on my run the next day. The boy was sitting a bit down hearted on a bench and I sat next to him and opened my book. I gave him his first look at a Spitfire, ( a truly beautiful aircraft) his eyes widened as I told him how fast it went, and wider when I showed him the eight guns and two cannon in the wings. The next picture was of a group of pilots next to another Spitfire. I said "Look at these men who flew Spitfires. This one was special. He was an Ace and a Wing Commander - a very high rank in the Air Force. He shot down lots of Nazi planes. See how he is standing funny?" I paused for effect.
"His name was Douglas Bader, and he had no legs!" His little jaw dropped. I gave him the other book, it was a compilation of Aviation heroes and the DVD - Reach For the Sky, The Douglas Bader Story.
His mother told me that he watched the DVD a few times over the weekend and now all he wants to do is fly.
My work there was done. I hope he doesn't find out for a long time that Bader was an arsehole who didn't deserve adulation. But a kid can have a hero can't he?
Most of the people I delivered to were rude, dismissive and surprisingly arrogant. One woman was different, she always had a smile and we'd chat a bit. On school holidays, the boss lets her bring her kids in and I'd try to say hello to them too. One day I could see she had been crying. Her son had a knee injury some time ago and she was told his limp was permanent. He was not a great scholar his main love was sports and now he is to be permanently sidelined.
When I went home, I dug out a couple of books and a DVD and took them on my run the next day. The boy was sitting a bit down hearted on a bench and I sat next to him and opened my book. I gave him his first look at a Spitfire, ( a truly beautiful aircraft) his eyes widened as I told him how fast it went, and wider when I showed him the eight guns and two cannon in the wings. The next picture was of a group of pilots next to another Spitfire. I said "Look at these men who flew Spitfires. This one was special. He was an Ace and a Wing Commander - a very high rank in the Air Force. He shot down lots of Nazi planes. See how he is standing funny?" I paused for effect.
"His name was Douglas Bader, and he had no legs!" His little jaw dropped. I gave him the other book, it was a compilation of Aviation heroes and the DVD - Reach For the Sky, The Douglas Bader Story.
His mother told me that he watched the DVD a few times over the weekend and now all he wants to do is fly.
My work there was done. I hope he doesn't find out for a long time that Bader was an arsehole who didn't deserve adulation. But a kid can have a hero can't he?
Destroying a Book.
I was criticised strongly for what I did here, the worst kind of censorship, that sort of thing. But I looked upon it as my moral duty to defend the brave young men and women of Bomber Command. The following letter tells the story.
The President
Milne Bay Military Museum
O’Quinn Street
Toowoomba
Queensland 4350
Dear Mr Flexman,
A couple of weeks ago I took my parents and their nephew to your museum and we had a great time looking at your exhibits and as we usually do in such places, linking them up to our own shared experiences. All four of us have military pasts of some kind - mine nothing like the contribution they have made. As we were leaving, I held up the party by looking through your books to add to my, already too big, collection. Among the books I bought was "Where is Home" by Hubert C Krause.
Let me say at the outset, I am not a person that is easily shocked, nor overly sensitive, but I was shocked at this little book. In my collection of firsthand accounts, I have several from the German side, but none have left me as disgusted with the author as this one. I am returning it, not with any request for a refund, but so I can label the more offensive passages and also so I don’t have to decide what to do with it. I couldn’t dishonour the memory of the brave men and women who are represented in my bookcases by giving this book space among them and burning books is something that is associated with the people that Mr Krause feels are hard done by.
Here is a list of some of the worst passages:
Page 12. The Author accuses Bomber Command of dropping bomblets in the shape of dolls and fountain pens. While admitting he never saw any, he was warned about them. No evidence was offered to back up this bizarre claim.
Page 14. The airmen of Bomber Command are described as "Cold blooded" murderers who deliberately targeted civilians and ignored factories. This baseless allegation is repeated elsewhere.
Page 25. The Author claims that Dresden was a "Guaranteed" safe haven. Once again, he offers no evidence as to who gave this guarantee and presents no comparison with Rotterdam, Coventry, Birmingham or Glasgow. The Author also regurgitates the old myth that Dresden was not a legitimate target as it had no war industry or value. This lie was comprehensively exposed by Frederick Taylor in Dresden, Tuesday 13 February 1945 (Published by Bloomsbury 2004)
Page 60. The Author repeats his "murderers" accusation and calls the bombings a "Holocaust".
Page 61. The Author says that the bombing of Dresden was "The worst single Massacre and War Crime against Humanity of all time". He then goes on to compare the German concentration camps with the bombing campaign over Germany. Regarding the gassing of the Jews as more favourable and once again writes that the men in the Lancasters, Halifaxes and B17s were war criminals and murderers who deliberately targeted civilians.
Page 62. The Author accuses the Allies of flying low and shooting civilians. All of the bombers were flying too high for this. Flying low made bombers too vulnerable, none would do it by choice. However the impression of shooting at civilians could be made by escorting Thunderbolts or Mustangs chasing and being chased by German fighters at low level.
Page 64. The Author bemoans the fact that the SS and Gestapo are always portrayed in a bad light and calls for the men of Bomber Command to be prosecuted for war crimes.
Bomber Command were treated badly at the conclusion of the Second World War by the very people who cheered them on as they flew overhead to strike back. They were the only unit of any size denied a place in the post war victory parade and on a percentage basis they suffered casualties more than any other unit. Most soldiers had a good chance of coming home. Most RAF bomber crewmen had little hope of completing a tour. And yet they went. Time and time again, the very best of our young men went out knowing that this night could be the night when their number came up.
In the light of the contemptible nature of this book and the bravery of the men of Bomber Command I ask you to remove this book from your shelves and not add to the injustice they have suffered. Should you wish to discuss this with me my numbers are below.
Yours faithfully
Paul Hannah
The President
Milne Bay Military Museum
O’Quinn Street
Toowoomba
Queensland 4350
Dear Mr Flexman,
A couple of weeks ago I took my parents and their nephew to your museum and we had a great time looking at your exhibits and as we usually do in such places, linking them up to our own shared experiences. All four of us have military pasts of some kind - mine nothing like the contribution they have made. As we were leaving, I held up the party by looking through your books to add to my, already too big, collection. Among the books I bought was "Where is Home" by Hubert C Krause.
Let me say at the outset, I am not a person that is easily shocked, nor overly sensitive, but I was shocked at this little book. In my collection of firsthand accounts, I have several from the German side, but none have left me as disgusted with the author as this one. I am returning it, not with any request for a refund, but so I can label the more offensive passages and also so I don’t have to decide what to do with it. I couldn’t dishonour the memory of the brave men and women who are represented in my bookcases by giving this book space among them and burning books is something that is associated with the people that Mr Krause feels are hard done by.
Here is a list of some of the worst passages:
Page 12. The Author accuses Bomber Command of dropping bomblets in the shape of dolls and fountain pens. While admitting he never saw any, he was warned about them. No evidence was offered to back up this bizarre claim.
Page 14. The airmen of Bomber Command are described as "Cold blooded" murderers who deliberately targeted civilians and ignored factories. This baseless allegation is repeated elsewhere.
Page 25. The Author claims that Dresden was a "Guaranteed" safe haven. Once again, he offers no evidence as to who gave this guarantee and presents no comparison with Rotterdam, Coventry, Birmingham or Glasgow. The Author also regurgitates the old myth that Dresden was not a legitimate target as it had no war industry or value. This lie was comprehensively exposed by Frederick Taylor in Dresden, Tuesday 13 February 1945 (Published by Bloomsbury 2004)
Page 60. The Author repeats his "murderers" accusation and calls the bombings a "Holocaust".
Page 61. The Author says that the bombing of Dresden was "The worst single Massacre and War Crime against Humanity of all time". He then goes on to compare the German concentration camps with the bombing campaign over Germany. Regarding the gassing of the Jews as more favourable and once again writes that the men in the Lancasters, Halifaxes and B17s were war criminals and murderers who deliberately targeted civilians.
Page 62. The Author accuses the Allies of flying low and shooting civilians. All of the bombers were flying too high for this. Flying low made bombers too vulnerable, none would do it by choice. However the impression of shooting at civilians could be made by escorting Thunderbolts or Mustangs chasing and being chased by German fighters at low level.
Page 64. The Author bemoans the fact that the SS and Gestapo are always portrayed in a bad light and calls for the men of Bomber Command to be prosecuted for war crimes.
Bomber Command were treated badly at the conclusion of the Second World War by the very people who cheered them on as they flew overhead to strike back. They were the only unit of any size denied a place in the post war victory parade and on a percentage basis they suffered casualties more than any other unit. Most soldiers had a good chance of coming home. Most RAF bomber crewmen had little hope of completing a tour. And yet they went. Time and time again, the very best of our young men went out knowing that this night could be the night when their number came up.
In the light of the contemptible nature of this book and the bravery of the men of Bomber Command I ask you to remove this book from your shelves and not add to the injustice they have suffered. Should you wish to discuss this with me my numbers are below.
Yours faithfully
Paul Hannah
A Grenade goes bang.
Many of you will know I spent a couple of years in the Australian Army Reserve. To my shame, I entered the University Regiment as a cynical financial arrangement. At the time a couple of weeks service would buy a car, and after one camp, I did! I had as good a time as I could possibly have and with the least amount of effort on my part.
I should have done better. Whereas I gave the Army as little as I could, it gave me one of the most terrifyingly thrilling moments of my life. I threw several dummy grenades and I threw two real, military grade, designed to kill people, grenades. Firing what everyone seems to call an assault rifle, is a lot of fun. I shot dozens of Musaurian* shaped targets with all sorts of go bang sticks, a couple of the machine guns were the historic Bren Gun, and the Thompson (Tommy) Gun from WWII and the preferred gun of Rambo, the GPMG.
Firing a gun is not a frightening experience. Even watching mortars fire, is interesting, but not scary. For real fear, you need a grenade. We were given a lecture on this handful of death with drawings and technical specs. In breach of a number of federal regulations, I will tell you a couple of those points about the grenade.
They look quite different to the chunky pineapples that are seen in the movies. They are smooth and lemon shaped, with the clip and pin where you would expect them to be. They are painted, like everything else Army, green. When you think of the damage these may cause, outside of the stun and destruction of the blast, you think of bits of the casing flying at speed into a body. Any surgeon would be able to find these chunks quite easily. However this grenade design has an extra deadly feature. Inside the case with the explosive is 100m of wire, crimped at regular intervals. The surgeons job after this gets inside a body is much harder. I expect that even with x-rays, finding a number of bits of shiny wire inside a shiny blood wet body would be a challenge.
We were marched out to the range where we first saw the gun pit. This is a hole in the ground about a head short of an average soldiers height. It was in an L shape lined with very battered bricks. Every solder that saw the damage to the bricks thought about what must have happened to smash those bricks, some soldiers drop their grenade in panic. They told us that the bricks were 'second grade', but that fooled no one. We began to get concerned. A sergeant and a corporal demonstrated what would happen if a soldier dropped one in the pit. The unfortunate corporal was hurriedly shoved unceremoniously around the corner of the L. The practice grenade went bang, and to us watching it seemed that at least three of their feet would be seriously hurt. Deep breath.
In the movies the pulling of the pin begins the fusing process, but this is not the case. The pin merely holds the clip on the side against a spring, when the grenade is thrown, the spring flies off and the eight second fuse begins its progress down to zero.
The authorised process of throwing a grenade, is as follows:
1. Take grenade in the left hand and place finger through the ring.
2. Pull the pin.
3. Inspect the pin, to check for damage and completeness.
4. Look carefully through the hole where the pin was, make sure it is clear of obstruction.
5. Discard the pin and transfer to right hand.
6. You hold this little handful of death, against your chest. Right next to your heart.
7. The instructor, points out the target, a half buried car tyre and you confirm that you identify it.
8. He grabs you by the collar behind your neck and yells "Peg the bastard!"
9. You throw. The clip makes a distinctive 'ding' sound and flies off somewhere unknown. Both my grenades hit the ground just before the tyre and rolled up to touch it.
10. The moment it stopped rolling, I thought "That's it for me" and ducked. I was dragged up by the collar to watch it for another three interminable seconds.
11. At five seconds I was dragged down to the bottom of the pit, face to face with some of the more damaged, bricks.
12. Boom.
A grenade explosion is a loud bang, not deafening, but loud enough. In the movies they can cause destruction on wildly varying scales from destroying a house, to smashing down a door. The latter is closer to the truth. From the moment I pulled the pin, I was terrified. I thought I'd drop it, I thought it would explode anyway even though I held that clip so tight, there was a red mark on my hand for the next hour. But just like Churchill who said words to the effect that, 'There is little so exhilarating as being unsuccessfully shot at', I was grinning for the next couple of hours. They had a couple left over and I was fortunate enough to be chosen to throw one of them. I was just as scared although I didn't duck as quickly this time, maybe I was just that bit better a soldier. And that is not such a bad thing.
*I don't know if this is still the case, but the Australian Army trains to fight a fictional country called Musauria. Musauria is about the same size as Indonesia, on an island in Asia about the same place as Indonesia, they use the same weapons, have the same training and use the same tactics as Indonesia. It isn't Indonesia of course, that would be rude.
I should have done better. Whereas I gave the Army as little as I could, it gave me one of the most terrifyingly thrilling moments of my life. I threw several dummy grenades and I threw two real, military grade, designed to kill people, grenades. Firing what everyone seems to call an assault rifle, is a lot of fun. I shot dozens of Musaurian* shaped targets with all sorts of go bang sticks, a couple of the machine guns were the historic Bren Gun, and the Thompson (Tommy) Gun from WWII and the preferred gun of Rambo, the GPMG.
Firing a gun is not a frightening experience. Even watching mortars fire, is interesting, but not scary. For real fear, you need a grenade. We were given a lecture on this handful of death with drawings and technical specs. In breach of a number of federal regulations, I will tell you a couple of those points about the grenade.
They look quite different to the chunky pineapples that are seen in the movies. They are smooth and lemon shaped, with the clip and pin where you would expect them to be. They are painted, like everything else Army, green. When you think of the damage these may cause, outside of the stun and destruction of the blast, you think of bits of the casing flying at speed into a body. Any surgeon would be able to find these chunks quite easily. However this grenade design has an extra deadly feature. Inside the case with the explosive is 100m of wire, crimped at regular intervals. The surgeons job after this gets inside a body is much harder. I expect that even with x-rays, finding a number of bits of shiny wire inside a shiny blood wet body would be a challenge.
We were marched out to the range where we first saw the gun pit. This is a hole in the ground about a head short of an average soldiers height. It was in an L shape lined with very battered bricks. Every solder that saw the damage to the bricks thought about what must have happened to smash those bricks, some soldiers drop their grenade in panic. They told us that the bricks were 'second grade', but that fooled no one. We began to get concerned. A sergeant and a corporal demonstrated what would happen if a soldier dropped one in the pit. The unfortunate corporal was hurriedly shoved unceremoniously around the corner of the L. The practice grenade went bang, and to us watching it seemed that at least three of their feet would be seriously hurt. Deep breath.
In the movies the pulling of the pin begins the fusing process, but this is not the case. The pin merely holds the clip on the side against a spring, when the grenade is thrown, the spring flies off and the eight second fuse begins its progress down to zero.
The authorised process of throwing a grenade, is as follows:
1. Take grenade in the left hand and place finger through the ring.
2. Pull the pin.
3. Inspect the pin, to check for damage and completeness.
4. Look carefully through the hole where the pin was, make sure it is clear of obstruction.
5. Discard the pin and transfer to right hand.
6. You hold this little handful of death, against your chest. Right next to your heart.
7. The instructor, points out the target, a half buried car tyre and you confirm that you identify it.
8. He grabs you by the collar behind your neck and yells "Peg the bastard!"
9. You throw. The clip makes a distinctive 'ding' sound and flies off somewhere unknown. Both my grenades hit the ground just before the tyre and rolled up to touch it.
10. The moment it stopped rolling, I thought "That's it for me" and ducked. I was dragged up by the collar to watch it for another three interminable seconds.
11. At five seconds I was dragged down to the bottom of the pit, face to face with some of the more damaged, bricks.
12. Boom.
A grenade explosion is a loud bang, not deafening, but loud enough. In the movies they can cause destruction on wildly varying scales from destroying a house, to smashing down a door. The latter is closer to the truth. From the moment I pulled the pin, I was terrified. I thought I'd drop it, I thought it would explode anyway even though I held that clip so tight, there was a red mark on my hand for the next hour. But just like Churchill who said words to the effect that, 'There is little so exhilarating as being unsuccessfully shot at', I was grinning for the next couple of hours. They had a couple left over and I was fortunate enough to be chosen to throw one of them. I was just as scared although I didn't duck as quickly this time, maybe I was just that bit better a soldier. And that is not such a bad thing.
*I don't know if this is still the case, but the Australian Army trains to fight a fictional country called Musauria. Musauria is about the same size as Indonesia, on an island in Asia about the same place as Indonesia, they use the same weapons, have the same training and use the same tactics as Indonesia. It isn't Indonesia of course, that would be rude.
I was flying over West Africa in my Google Earthmobile when I came upon Djenne in Mali. The place was dotted with photographs, and several National Geographic shots too. The mosque is the largest mud brick building in the world. I looked it up on wiki and read the entry. By the time I got to Cultural Significance, I wanted to go. What followed was a wonderful story of a community involvement... I, can't put it better than Wiki, so I'll drop a link at the end of this missive. But it truly is wonderful how they all get together and work on the mosque.
Makes you feel all warm and fuzzy doesn't it?
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Mosque_of_Djenn%C3%A9
Makes you feel all warm and fuzzy doesn't it?
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Mosque_of_Djenn%C3%A9
The Greatest Raid of All
In WWII there were many small scale and several larger raids on the coast of France. Universally acclaimed as "The Greatest Raid of All" was the one on St Nazaire (France) on March 28, 1942. The port had a vital dry dock as it was the only dock big enough to take Hitler's pocket battleships like the Bismarck.
The Brits had a unit headed by the Queen's uncle Mountbatten called Combined Operations. This unit executed operations that involved two or more services. On this day, Commando groups stormed the port and wrecked as much equipment as they could while an old destroyer, the Campbeltown was sailed with as much speed as it could muster and slammed into the gates of the dry dock.
There were 622 British personnel engaged on the day. Only about half of the British soldiers got away, 169 were killed and 215 more were taken prisoner. After the raid was over The Campbeltown was stuck into the gates of the drydock and the Nazi command were bemused at the outcome. All of these dead men, all this time, effort and expense, just to present the Germans with another ship and a couple of days repairing the dock. The British must be mad. Around thirty high ranking Germans climbed into the ship using the ladders the commandos had left. Some brought their girlfriends to admire the folly of the British. Rumour went around that there was chocolate and cigarettes aboard so lots of Germans climbed aboard to search and joke around. Submarine commanders, gunnery officers, everyone wanted to see and laugh at the stupid British.
The commanding officer of the British, Lieutenant Commander Beattie was being interrogated by Nazi intelligence and was told that they must have grossly underestimated the strength of the gates. At that moment, inside a welded shut compartment taking up the entire bow of the ship a timer ticked to zero. .
The bang was huge. The ground shook like an earthquake. Hundreds of Germans and German sympathisers were killed. Gruesome bits of Nazis decorated the rooftops for miles around. It took them days to clean them up.
"That I hope, is proof, that we did not underestimate the strength of the gate." said Beattie. The interrogation was cut short. The damage was so great that dock was not back in service for ten years after the war.
The Brits had a unit headed by the Queen's uncle Mountbatten called Combined Operations. This unit executed operations that involved two or more services. On this day, Commando groups stormed the port and wrecked as much equipment as they could while an old destroyer, the Campbeltown was sailed with as much speed as it could muster and slammed into the gates of the dry dock.
There were 622 British personnel engaged on the day. Only about half of the British soldiers got away, 169 were killed and 215 more were taken prisoner. After the raid was over The Campbeltown was stuck into the gates of the drydock and the Nazi command were bemused at the outcome. All of these dead men, all this time, effort and expense, just to present the Germans with another ship and a couple of days repairing the dock. The British must be mad. Around thirty high ranking Germans climbed into the ship using the ladders the commandos had left. Some brought their girlfriends to admire the folly of the British. Rumour went around that there was chocolate and cigarettes aboard so lots of Germans climbed aboard to search and joke around. Submarine commanders, gunnery officers, everyone wanted to see and laugh at the stupid British.
The commanding officer of the British, Lieutenant Commander Beattie was being interrogated by Nazi intelligence and was told that they must have grossly underestimated the strength of the gates. At that moment, inside a welded shut compartment taking up the entire bow of the ship a timer ticked to zero. .
The bang was huge. The ground shook like an earthquake. Hundreds of Germans and German sympathisers were killed. Gruesome bits of Nazis decorated the rooftops for miles around. It took them days to clean them up.
"That I hope, is proof, that we did not underestimate the strength of the gate." said Beattie. The interrogation was cut short. The damage was so great that dock was not back in service for ten years after the war.
Decorating St Peters
Now that the world is focussing on the Vatican I thought I would mention one item that struck me in Saint Peters Cathedral. Surrounding the main dome of the cathedral are four smaller domes. They each have a little tower ( a copula) with the usual painting inside the dome. I am convinced that if any one found an undecorated part of that pile of money and masonry, someone responsible would have gone to prison
The paintings were what struck me, I strained hard to see what they were and had to fit my telephoto lens to see them (I look at more religious art and artefacts than does Mrs Me who is at least nominally catholic.) As I was looking at this I realised that these were painted some 500 years ago before telescopes were invented (or just a little after) and the painters would believe that no one would ever see and appreciate their work.
Wouldn't you want to incorporate a medieval joke up there? I would.
The paintings were what struck me, I strained hard to see what they were and had to fit my telephoto lens to see them (I look at more religious art and artefacts than does Mrs Me who is at least nominally catholic.) As I was looking at this I realised that these were painted some 500 years ago before telescopes were invented (or just a little after) and the painters would believe that no one would ever see and appreciate their work.
Wouldn't you want to incorporate a medieval joke up there? I would.
Pen and ink
I bought a fountain pen* to write a sad letter of condolence. I always think such things are better written and not typed. I came to realise though, how much writing has changed for me since I now type almost everything. Not the style, I still write in the same erratic style, no one letter looking much like the same letter in another word, but the process. It took me four attempts at the letter and two at the envelope before I got it mistake free. Not being able to use that backspace button, makes for many mistakes that would otherwise go unnoticed.
*Fountain pens are pens that need to be filled with ink either directly from a bottle or via a pre filled cartridge.
*Fountain pens are pens that need to be filled with ink either directly from a bottle or via a pre filled cartridge.
The Human Campaign. (Part one)
When my parents took us to Queensland to live, I thought it was all beaches and deserts. Imagine my surprise to find myself in Ipswich, a town that looked very ‘Old West’ with cast ironwork balconies on the many pubs and swinging doors on the front. This was 1968, months before we walked on the moon, I was moving to a town that looked like John Wayne was due for the hangin’.
My mother made instant friends with the neighbours and I overheard one memorable chat. The subject of the local aborigines came up and he was telling us a few stories of life out west. He finished with words I shall never forget "Yeah, when they got a bit thick we’d give ‘em some flour with some arsenic in it." I have no idea what happened next, I am sure she didn’t rush to the Police Station and report a murder confession. Turning the bloke in was not something that troubled my fourteen year old conscience either, but it does now.
Why is that? I am ashamed that my morality was so deficient as to be near sociopathic, how could I hear and brush off information about mass murder of entire families! But as Sam Harris points out, we are shocked at the morality of our grandparents, just as we will shock our grand children. And this is a good thing. We are getting better as discerning what is right and getting quicker at implementing change. For anyone born before 1950, racism would be common, a hundred years earlier it would be systemic and a couple of hundred years before that ingrained into law and hardly questioned .It took hundreds of years for racists to be regarded as evil by ordinary folk.
That fourteen year old kid attended a school of 1500 students, not a single outed gay. We had suspicions about one kid, but nothing was ever done to him that I heard of. I met him again five years after we left school, he was dressed in cutout black leather and studs.
It took us five hundred years to be rid of enough racism as to enable a black man to be POTUS. It has taken us only thirty years to abandon enough homophobia as to permit same sex weddings. If only I knew what my grandkids will be offended by, so that we could get a head start on the new wave of morality.
My mother made instant friends with the neighbours and I overheard one memorable chat. The subject of the local aborigines came up and he was telling us a few stories of life out west. He finished with words I shall never forget "Yeah, when they got a bit thick we’d give ‘em some flour with some arsenic in it." I have no idea what happened next, I am sure she didn’t rush to the Police Station and report a murder confession. Turning the bloke in was not something that troubled my fourteen year old conscience either, but it does now.
Why is that? I am ashamed that my morality was so deficient as to be near sociopathic, how could I hear and brush off information about mass murder of entire families! But as Sam Harris points out, we are shocked at the morality of our grandparents, just as we will shock our grand children. And this is a good thing. We are getting better as discerning what is right and getting quicker at implementing change. For anyone born before 1950, racism would be common, a hundred years earlier it would be systemic and a couple of hundred years before that ingrained into law and hardly questioned .It took hundreds of years for racists to be regarded as evil by ordinary folk.
That fourteen year old kid attended a school of 1500 students, not a single outed gay. We had suspicions about one kid, but nothing was ever done to him that I heard of. I met him again five years after we left school, he was dressed in cutout black leather and studs.
It took us five hundred years to be rid of enough racism as to enable a black man to be POTUS. It has taken us only thirty years to abandon enough homophobia as to permit same sex weddings. If only I knew what my grandkids will be offended by, so that we could get a head start on the new wave of morality.
Guilty pizza
I guilted myself into a good deed this evening.
Our hosts and Mrs Me are out at a charity thing tonight, so I am in a unfamiliar city and someone else's house and needed dinner, so I went out for pizza. Since arriving I have been noticing lots of homeless lying around the streets, begging for money. This fellow was sitting asking for money and I gave him my standard lie "I'm sorry I can't " as I passed him by. When I went into the shop I felt so awful I thought about giving him half my pizza but then I thought, I'm too hungry for that and I realised he was probably hungrier than I am. So I ordered one for him and one for me. His face lit up when I gave it and five dollars to him and said " you're a champion mate!" And I thought to myself "Nah, just luckier than you and guilty of ignoring too many requests like yours.
Our hosts and Mrs Me are out at a charity thing tonight, so I am in a unfamiliar city and someone else's house and needed dinner, so I went out for pizza. Since arriving I have been noticing lots of homeless lying around the streets, begging for money. This fellow was sitting asking for money and I gave him my standard lie "I'm sorry I can't " as I passed him by. When I went into the shop I felt so awful I thought about giving him half my pizza but then I thought, I'm too hungry for that and I realised he was probably hungrier than I am. So I ordered one for him and one for me. His face lit up when I gave it and five dollars to him and said " you're a champion mate!" And I thought to myself "Nah, just luckier than you and guilty of ignoring too many requests like yours.
On the changing of the guard at the Vatican
What must the old pope be feeling now? A sense of failure to complete the task his god sent him? Relief now his ordeal is nearly over? It can be tough being a pope I suppose. but frankly I don't give a shit about what he feels, because all he deserves to feel is guilt. Guilt for killing millions in Africa by continuing to tell lies to them about condoms causing AIDS. Guilt for all the dirty secret banking deals the Vatican indulges in and the investments into arms companies and equally distasteful enterprises. Guilt for telling harmful lies to a billion people each and every day. But most of all he should feel guilty for the children.
Guilty for the children to whom he lied so that his evil organization can ensure a supply of priests. Guilty for the children who killed themselves for being gay and listening to his lies.
Guilty for the children who suffered and died in hell holes like New Norcia, Western Australia, believing that their parents in England were dead.
Guilty for the children who died in the hellish laundries ran by his predecessors.
Guilty for the girls who killed themselves rather than be seen to be pregnant, the collateral damage of your obsession with controlling their sex lives.
Guilty for the girls who grew to be women who felt too guilty to enjoy sex.
But above all he should feel guilt for his complicity in the systemic rape of the children directly and indirectly in his care.
Guilty for harbouring the criminal conspiracy within the priesthood, moving known sex offenders to other jurisdictions and hiding the crime by bribery and if that failed by threats and the intimidation of witnesses.
Guilty for developing and implementing the policy of secrecy, and cover up of the crimes by those under him.
I call upon this pope to do the following:
1. Immediately employ Geoffrey Robertson QC to draft Papal Bulls that you will pronounce binding on all Catholics.
2. Forbid, under pain of whatever fantasy he thinks will work, the appointment of another pope.
3. Appoint an international firm of accountants to set in process the sale of all Vatican non church assets, the works of art should be placed in the appropriate government agencies around the world.
4. Announce to the world that the Vatican City is neither a city or a state, it shall henceforth be a district of Rome, a suburb.
5. Appoint a team of lawyers (chosen by from around the world by Robertson QC) to determine how much is owed to the victims of this evil organization. And to use Vatican funds and the proceeds of the sales to pay victims a tiny bit of the compensation they deserve.
If there is any of the money left it should be immediately spent on alleviating the cycle of hunger in the third world.
Finally he should present himself (by train, economy class) to the International criminal court for trial and submit to their judgment.
Guilty for the children to whom he lied so that his evil organization can ensure a supply of priests. Guilty for the children who killed themselves for being gay and listening to his lies.
Guilty for the children who suffered and died in hell holes like New Norcia, Western Australia, believing that their parents in England were dead.
Guilty for the children who died in the hellish laundries ran by his predecessors.
Guilty for the girls who killed themselves rather than be seen to be pregnant, the collateral damage of your obsession with controlling their sex lives.
Guilty for the girls who grew to be women who felt too guilty to enjoy sex.
But above all he should feel guilt for his complicity in the systemic rape of the children directly and indirectly in his care.
Guilty for harbouring the criminal conspiracy within the priesthood, moving known sex offenders to other jurisdictions and hiding the crime by bribery and if that failed by threats and the intimidation of witnesses.
Guilty for developing and implementing the policy of secrecy, and cover up of the crimes by those under him.
I call upon this pope to do the following:
1. Immediately employ Geoffrey Robertson QC to draft Papal Bulls that you will pronounce binding on all Catholics.
2. Forbid, under pain of whatever fantasy he thinks will work, the appointment of another pope.
3. Appoint an international firm of accountants to set in process the sale of all Vatican non church assets, the works of art should be placed in the appropriate government agencies around the world.
4. Announce to the world that the Vatican City is neither a city or a state, it shall henceforth be a district of Rome, a suburb.
5. Appoint a team of lawyers (chosen by from around the world by Robertson QC) to determine how much is owed to the victims of this evil organization. And to use Vatican funds and the proceeds of the sales to pay victims a tiny bit of the compensation they deserve.
If there is any of the money left it should be immediately spent on alleviating the cycle of hunger in the third world.
Finally he should present himself (by train, economy class) to the International criminal court for trial and submit to their judgment.
Cutting wood
Woodwork is all about the art of the cut. You must have seen thousands of wooden joints in your time, but do you know what goes into each cut? If not, read on...
I selected a piece of scrap wood for this task, It won't be seen, all it has to do is work. First I must cut it to size. I take my current favourite tape measure, all woodworkers have their favourite tools. A beautiful chisel, might be made of old fashioned Sheffield Steel, and the planets were in just the right position when it was rolled out, so it takes to the grinder beautifully and hold it's edge almost forever. I find these gems in garage sales and second hand stores sometimes with none or broken handles and get a real buzz from taking unwanted sad looking steel, and turning it back into its original purpose.
But I digress, I measure the gap where this wood is destined to fill and mark out the wood. Every tablesaw holds the rightful place of the centre of the workshop as the most important tool. It is a rare project that doesn't need a tablesaw at some stage. The versatility of the machine is the key here, I can cut a wall panel sized door on it or something as small as a pencil. It does both equally well. For this task I need the crosscut jig. [*1.] I lay the wood on the jig, pull it back and present the cut to the blade, silent and still, it waits for power to set it in motion. Then I position the wood, so the cut is just right, just touching the pencil mark. I then press the wood hard against the crosscut fence, check the position and pull it all back a few mm from the blade. I now lift up the safety cover on the tablesaw switch and press the soft green plastic covering the ON switch. The motor spins up in two stages, a soft whirr followed by a great whine, just before the wheel hits its normal speed, the teeth of the blade disappear. The blur of the blade is awfully deceptive. It looks, vague, insubstantial, soft and harmless. But those tungsten blades are spinning around at three or four thousand complete revolutions per minute, each one powered by a monster three horse power engine. It will slice through a finger or even an arm given the chance. My left index finger's scars are testament to it's power. It was so fast that I didn't feel the pain till after I saw the blood. There was lots of both in the next few minutes. I see my scarred finger pressing against the wood and it reminds me to take care.
Slowly I move the wood into the teeth of the blade. The pitch of the motor changes slightly as the teeth begin the cut. It is as if the wood is disappearing before my eyes. This perfect cut progressed across the wood exactly one bladewidth wide. On completion I check the cut, make sure it is square and then take it to the hole it will fill. It is a little too long, so I take it back to the table saw and set it up against the crosscut sled again. I need a tiny cut, much smaller than the blade width, I expected this, but as every wood worker knows, it is much easier to make a piece of wood shorter than it is to make it longer. I present the wood to the blade and adjust it to one squintillianth [*2] of a mm. About a quarter of the bladewidth looks right and I proceed as before. It is now the correct length. The width of the wood is now the issue.
Removing the jig, I slide the fence [*3] across to about the right spot and press the wood hard against it. I adjust the fence position a couple of times till I am happy. This is the fence that came with the table saw and I am still evaluating it. I have a very expensive fence in storage, that I had on my old saw, it is a sod to install, but I will do it if this one doesn't perform. The motor spins up again and once I am sure it is at full speed I press the wood lengthways onto the fence and slide it into the blade. The cut looks good, I keep the movement smooth and fluid and as the spinning wheel of blood is getting too close to my hand I pick up a push stick [*4] to take the risk for me. The resultant long cut is close to the same width as its mate, but not close enough. I adjust the fence again, and cut each half one and two squintillianths respectively. They are now identical. I have decided that this is how I will sign and date the piece, so I write 'Paul Hannah January 2013' in big letters along one piece.
Putting the pieces in place is very satisfying. The fit is perfect. The words are inside the two pieces of wood and will only be seen if it is dismantled. Such is the lot of woodworkers seeking fame. I did this an hour ago to facilitate putting the hinges onto a mail box lid. Just as a person can be judged by how well s/he treats those who can do him no good, a woodworker is judged by how well he makes those things that will never be seen.
1. A jig is a constructed device that enables certain jobs to be done easily, accurately and repetitively. This one makes cuts across the wood grain.
2. A sqintillianth is a very small width, I am told that several can fit into a mm, but I haven't seen it so I cannot vouch for it.
3. A Fence is a device, on looking like a a long length of boxed aluminium running exactly parallel to the blade. It is used for making long cuts.
4. A push stick is a notched piece of wood or plastic that presses wood into the blade closer than you want your fingers.
I selected a piece of scrap wood for this task, It won't be seen, all it has to do is work. First I must cut it to size. I take my current favourite tape measure, all woodworkers have their favourite tools. A beautiful chisel, might be made of old fashioned Sheffield Steel, and the planets were in just the right position when it was rolled out, so it takes to the grinder beautifully and hold it's edge almost forever. I find these gems in garage sales and second hand stores sometimes with none or broken handles and get a real buzz from taking unwanted sad looking steel, and turning it back into its original purpose.
But I digress, I measure the gap where this wood is destined to fill and mark out the wood. Every tablesaw holds the rightful place of the centre of the workshop as the most important tool. It is a rare project that doesn't need a tablesaw at some stage. The versatility of the machine is the key here, I can cut a wall panel sized door on it or something as small as a pencil. It does both equally well. For this task I need the crosscut jig. [*1.] I lay the wood on the jig, pull it back and present the cut to the blade, silent and still, it waits for power to set it in motion. Then I position the wood, so the cut is just right, just touching the pencil mark. I then press the wood hard against the crosscut fence, check the position and pull it all back a few mm from the blade. I now lift up the safety cover on the tablesaw switch and press the soft green plastic covering the ON switch. The motor spins up in two stages, a soft whirr followed by a great whine, just before the wheel hits its normal speed, the teeth of the blade disappear. The blur of the blade is awfully deceptive. It looks, vague, insubstantial, soft and harmless. But those tungsten blades are spinning around at three or four thousand complete revolutions per minute, each one powered by a monster three horse power engine. It will slice through a finger or even an arm given the chance. My left index finger's scars are testament to it's power. It was so fast that I didn't feel the pain till after I saw the blood. There was lots of both in the next few minutes. I see my scarred finger pressing against the wood and it reminds me to take care.
Slowly I move the wood into the teeth of the blade. The pitch of the motor changes slightly as the teeth begin the cut. It is as if the wood is disappearing before my eyes. This perfect cut progressed across the wood exactly one bladewidth wide. On completion I check the cut, make sure it is square and then take it to the hole it will fill. It is a little too long, so I take it back to the table saw and set it up against the crosscut sled again. I need a tiny cut, much smaller than the blade width, I expected this, but as every wood worker knows, it is much easier to make a piece of wood shorter than it is to make it longer. I present the wood to the blade and adjust it to one squintillianth [*2] of a mm. About a quarter of the bladewidth looks right and I proceed as before. It is now the correct length. The width of the wood is now the issue.
Removing the jig, I slide the fence [*3] across to about the right spot and press the wood hard against it. I adjust the fence position a couple of times till I am happy. This is the fence that came with the table saw and I am still evaluating it. I have a very expensive fence in storage, that I had on my old saw, it is a sod to install, but I will do it if this one doesn't perform. The motor spins up again and once I am sure it is at full speed I press the wood lengthways onto the fence and slide it into the blade. The cut looks good, I keep the movement smooth and fluid and as the spinning wheel of blood is getting too close to my hand I pick up a push stick [*4] to take the risk for me. The resultant long cut is close to the same width as its mate, but not close enough. I adjust the fence again, and cut each half one and two squintillianths respectively. They are now identical. I have decided that this is how I will sign and date the piece, so I write 'Paul Hannah January 2013' in big letters along one piece.
Putting the pieces in place is very satisfying. The fit is perfect. The words are inside the two pieces of wood and will only be seen if it is dismantled. Such is the lot of woodworkers seeking fame. I did this an hour ago to facilitate putting the hinges onto a mail box lid. Just as a person can be judged by how well s/he treats those who can do him no good, a woodworker is judged by how well he makes those things that will never be seen.
1. A jig is a constructed device that enables certain jobs to be done easily, accurately and repetitively. This one makes cuts across the wood grain.
2. A sqintillianth is a very small width, I am told that several can fit into a mm, but I haven't seen it so I cannot vouch for it.
3. A Fence is a device, on looking like a a long length of boxed aluminium running exactly parallel to the blade. It is used for making long cuts.
4. A push stick is a notched piece of wood or plastic that presses wood into the blade closer than you want your fingers.
Today I shall give some advice for those seeking love. To avoid endless s/he and gender changing alternatives I will speak in terms of the gender you are seeking, so all LGTBT people can apply the advice as they see fit and be included like the rest of us.
When I was single I was looking to meet women and wasn't getting very far, the usual clubs and pubs are awful especially if you are like me and are interested in brains as well as bodies. Then I stumbled on a solution, I took a vegetarian cooking class and was surprised to find that those and all of the specialty cooking classes were full of women. The person seeking women in that environment has an instant introduction to every woman in the room and there are many of them. In one class I got three dates.
However, if you are seeking men then you should sign up for a basic cooking class. Here you have a distinct advantage over those seeking women. All of the men in an intro to cooking class are self selecting for your needs. They are mostly single as they don't have anyone to cook for them, plus they are willing to get off their arse and do something rather than wait for a partner to cook for them.
If you sign up for a class and there is no one you fancy, then approach the teacher explain that some issue has just come up and you can't attend the rest of the course "Could I transfer the credit to the next course?" Let us know how it goes
When I was single I was looking to meet women and wasn't getting very far, the usual clubs and pubs are awful especially if you are like me and are interested in brains as well as bodies. Then I stumbled on a solution, I took a vegetarian cooking class and was surprised to find that those and all of the specialty cooking classes were full of women. The person seeking women in that environment has an instant introduction to every woman in the room and there are many of them. In one class I got three dates.
However, if you are seeking men then you should sign up for a basic cooking class. Here you have a distinct advantage over those seeking women. All of the men in an intro to cooking class are self selecting for your needs. They are mostly single as they don't have anyone to cook for them, plus they are willing to get off their arse and do something rather than wait for a partner to cook for them.
If you sign up for a class and there is no one you fancy, then approach the teacher explain that some issue has just come up and you can't attend the rest of the course "Could I transfer the credit to the next course?" Let us know how it goes
My neighbour is alone and unable to do any woodwork needed her letterbox replaced. The original builder used ordinary plywood and didn't bother painting inside or sealing the joints. Consequently it rotted. I made the new carcass out of exterior hardwood plywood (offcuts from the observatory turret) and will be sealed and painted everywhere. I will post a pic of it in place with the cladding affixed. Doing those bloody windows nearly did my head in. The angles are all odd and crazy chamfers and needed to be perfect to get the seal done correctly so it wont leak and rot. Next time I open my big mouth and say "Easy, I can do that,. please kick me and repost the second pic!
Ambitions of flight
Some of you know that we euthanised our dog Sally a few months ago but I don't think many would know that she wasn't the first dog I had called Sally. I must have been 8 or so when my parents brought Sally home. At that time my only ambition in life was to be a pilot an RAF pilot of anything that flew. But I remember clearly that the day I decided I was unlikely ever to pilot a plane, so I would become a vet. What surprises me most about that memory is the implication of me deciding I could never be a pilot. How on Earth could I become so discouraged from a dream that is as strong in me now as it was back then. Even now pictures of aircraft decorate my office and my workshop. I am such an aviation nut I have cutaway pictures of aircraft engines on the wall too! For all their faults I doubt my parents would have planted this poisonous seed, - yet I can't think of who else could have. We had only had Sally a few months before she contracted distemper. She was too young to be inoculated, and was put down immediately upon diagnosis. There was nothing more could be done. At that moment I rejected the vet career option though I don't recall what replaced it. Today I never see a cloud in the daytime without thinking about flying around it in a little fighter aircraft.
Let me tell you about one night in my astronomy progress.
I had just moved to a better, darker sky than I had in the city and on the first clear night I set my scope up on the grass. All the lights in the house were off, everyone else was asleep. It was just me and the sky. I switched on and watched the tiny red light glow steadily. Then I picked up the controller from its soda bottle holster and pressed through the menu. Date, time, Lat/Long. The longitude would not have changed much, but the latitude would be minutes out. Check the GPS for my position, yes, both need adjusting. Now to tell the computer which way is up. I search through the menu till I see a star I recognise - Aldebaran the red giant and the inspiration for Princess Leia's Alderon. I hit GO and the motors slew and yaw toward the star. Close, but no cigar. I make the delicate adjustments to get this crimson jewel centred in the eyepiece and hit OK. Then I have to choose three others before calibration is complete, and only then I am ready for the big time.
The target for tonight. I am looking for something 2.5 million light years away but hurtling toward us at over a hundred kilometres a SECOND! It is outside of our galaxy and bigger than the entire Milky Way, My target is the Andromeda Galaxy and one day 4.5 billion years from now it will collide with the Milky Way and either pass right through us or, combine with us to form a single blobby galaxy. Imaging the spectacle if the two super massive black holes should come within the gravitational influence of each other! I try to visualise this for a moment, but soon turn back to the scope. I select GALAXY and then select Andromeda on the control and then I prepared myself for my first extra galactic target. I hit GO and the scope motors whirred toward the galaxy. I looked at low power through the eye piece and there was nothing. Just black empty space. I take a hold of the controller and hit PRECISE GOTO, Andromeda was the first entry and after a moment, it came up with five stars to choose from. I chose the first as it was the brightest, once again the motors kicked in and settled on a starfield of thirty or so stars. I picked the brightest and centred a low power eyepiece onto it. I hit GO again and the scope did a very tiny move in both axes. I still had a low powered eye piece in and I looked into the cold blackness of space. At first I could see nothing, then as I scanned the field of view I saw a tiny smudge of dusty light. I moved it to the exact centre and changed eyepieces, and there it was, Andromeda!
It was still a smudge of light, but that light, those few million photons that hit my retina, each one had travelled two and a half MILLION years to get there and none hit a spec of dust on the way. Not one. When I blinked untold millions made the journey in vain. It is a breathtaking thought. Gazillions of starlight photons that hit Earth every night and most will have a wasted journey, perhaps you could reduce this waste by looking up a little every night. Name a star after yourself. I won't tell. Just don't pick Aldebaran, she's all mine!
I had just moved to a better, darker sky than I had in the city and on the first clear night I set my scope up on the grass. All the lights in the house were off, everyone else was asleep. It was just me and the sky. I switched on and watched the tiny red light glow steadily. Then I picked up the controller from its soda bottle holster and pressed through the menu. Date, time, Lat/Long. The longitude would not have changed much, but the latitude would be minutes out. Check the GPS for my position, yes, both need adjusting. Now to tell the computer which way is up. I search through the menu till I see a star I recognise - Aldebaran the red giant and the inspiration for Princess Leia's Alderon. I hit GO and the motors slew and yaw toward the star. Close, but no cigar. I make the delicate adjustments to get this crimson jewel centred in the eyepiece and hit OK. Then I have to choose three others before calibration is complete, and only then I am ready for the big time.
The target for tonight. I am looking for something 2.5 million light years away but hurtling toward us at over a hundred kilometres a SECOND! It is outside of our galaxy and bigger than the entire Milky Way, My target is the Andromeda Galaxy and one day 4.5 billion years from now it will collide with the Milky Way and either pass right through us or, combine with us to form a single blobby galaxy. Imaging the spectacle if the two super massive black holes should come within the gravitational influence of each other! I try to visualise this for a moment, but soon turn back to the scope. I select GALAXY and then select Andromeda on the control and then I prepared myself for my first extra galactic target. I hit GO and the scope motors whirred toward the galaxy. I looked at low power through the eye piece and there was nothing. Just black empty space. I take a hold of the controller and hit PRECISE GOTO, Andromeda was the first entry and after a moment, it came up with five stars to choose from. I chose the first as it was the brightest, once again the motors kicked in and settled on a starfield of thirty or so stars. I picked the brightest and centred a low power eyepiece onto it. I hit GO again and the scope did a very tiny move in both axes. I still had a low powered eye piece in and I looked into the cold blackness of space. At first I could see nothing, then as I scanned the field of view I saw a tiny smudge of dusty light. I moved it to the exact centre and changed eyepieces, and there it was, Andromeda!
It was still a smudge of light, but that light, those few million photons that hit my retina, each one had travelled two and a half MILLION years to get there and none hit a spec of dust on the way. Not one. When I blinked untold millions made the journey in vain. It is a breathtaking thought. Gazillions of starlight photons that hit Earth every night and most will have a wasted journey, perhaps you could reduce this waste by looking up a little every night. Name a star after yourself. I won't tell. Just don't pick Aldebaran, she's all mine!
Heads up!
Oh and when the salesperson asks what you plan on using high powered binoculars for, they take it the wrong way if you are honest about the hottie in the building across the street.
Just a heads up.
Just a heads up.
Courtroom observation
Take it from me. When a judge uses the words 'Restraining Order', you had probably better not respond with 'Oooh kinky!"
Sunday, March 16, 2014
Biggles Saves the World
How Biggles saved western civilization and told a generation of young men how a true hero behaves.
As heroes go, Biggles has it all for me. Scrupulously honest, tough and a highly skilled pilot. For the ladies, a man who fell in love only once, but he loved her for the rest of his life. He had great longevity learning to fly before WWI, only showing his age at all in the seventies, when he would have been a similar age to the century.
Our hero's first love was for flying, it didn't matter what he flew, he loved it and it showed in every story. He travelled around the world from Antarctica to the Baltic and all in between, fighting anyone who would rightly be opposed by the forces of good.
The author W.E. Johns was in the forerunner to the RAF, the Royal Flying Corps, where he flew against the Germans in World War I. He was captured by them, tried and sentenced to death by firing squad. he made a couple of bids to escape from the German's care and was eventually released when the war ended.
Johns' was appalled at the lack of public awareness of aviation, he knew that the next war would be determined by air power and so he set about writing to inspire young men (and later women) to learn to fly and fly for the RAF. To this end he created Biggles and his friends.
W.E Johns edited flying magazines, wrote stories for them in his own name and under a pseudonym. Finally he promoted himself to Captain and wrote the first Biggles book. It was a runaway success and boys clamoured for more. Fortunately he was the kind of author who could produce great numbers of books - 168 of them! Biggles stories appeared in comic books, anthologies, in his own collections and full length books. These stories inspired many, many young boys to become pilots. They hung around airfields to cadge rides and as soon as they were old enough, they joined "The best flying club in the world", the RAF.
During WWII a group of RAF pilots were asked what got them interested in flying, they answered in unison "BIGGLES!" These are the pilots who stopped Hitler in the summer of 1940, these are the boys that served Hitler his first and greatest defeat in the air. It is no exaggeration to say that these boys, saved civilisation.
He wrote for girls too. The Air Ministry was having trouble getting young women to join the WAAF and asked Johns to write a book for girls. The result was the 'embryonic feminist' Worrals. Within weeks, there was no further need to advertise to recruit women, they were coming from everywhere.
Before Johns' began his campaign to promote air power, the general public and the politicians were thinking about defence in first world war terms. After he began to write awareness grew, money spent and machines like the Spitfire and the Hurricane were produced.
Biggles was a world wide success, his character had humour, courage, integrity, inventiveness and great skill. Through these books shone the attributes I and a couple of generations grew to admire and respect. Biggles' attributes were those that boys could and should aspire to and to value in others.
There are Baby Boomers around the world who, like me have a hero who can appeal across generational divides and one who can be counted on to inspire to action.
W.E. Johns not only saved Britain from invasion by providing the skilled force to do it, he has given us a hero worth acknowledging as worthy of the name.
As heroes go, Biggles has it all for me. Scrupulously honest, tough and a highly skilled pilot. For the ladies, a man who fell in love only once, but he loved her for the rest of his life. He had great longevity learning to fly before WWI, only showing his age at all in the seventies, when he would have been a similar age to the century.
Our hero's first love was for flying, it didn't matter what he flew, he loved it and it showed in every story. He travelled around the world from Antarctica to the Baltic and all in between, fighting anyone who would rightly be opposed by the forces of good.
The author W.E. Johns was in the forerunner to the RAF, the Royal Flying Corps, where he flew against the Germans in World War I. He was captured by them, tried and sentenced to death by firing squad. he made a couple of bids to escape from the German's care and was eventually released when the war ended.
Johns' was appalled at the lack of public awareness of aviation, he knew that the next war would be determined by air power and so he set about writing to inspire young men (and later women) to learn to fly and fly for the RAF. To this end he created Biggles and his friends.
W.E Johns edited flying magazines, wrote stories for them in his own name and under a pseudonym. Finally he promoted himself to Captain and wrote the first Biggles book. It was a runaway success and boys clamoured for more. Fortunately he was the kind of author who could produce great numbers of books - 168 of them! Biggles stories appeared in comic books, anthologies, in his own collections and full length books. These stories inspired many, many young boys to become pilots. They hung around airfields to cadge rides and as soon as they were old enough, they joined "The best flying club in the world", the RAF.
During WWII a group of RAF pilots were asked what got them interested in flying, they answered in unison "BIGGLES!" These are the pilots who stopped Hitler in the summer of 1940, these are the boys that served Hitler his first and greatest defeat in the air. It is no exaggeration to say that these boys, saved civilisation.
He wrote for girls too. The Air Ministry was having trouble getting young women to join the WAAF and asked Johns to write a book for girls. The result was the 'embryonic feminist' Worrals. Within weeks, there was no further need to advertise to recruit women, they were coming from everywhere.
Before Johns' began his campaign to promote air power, the general public and the politicians were thinking about defence in first world war terms. After he began to write awareness grew, money spent and machines like the Spitfire and the Hurricane were produced.
Biggles was a world wide success, his character had humour, courage, integrity, inventiveness and great skill. Through these books shone the attributes I and a couple of generations grew to admire and respect. Biggles' attributes were those that boys could and should aspire to and to value in others.
There are Baby Boomers around the world who, like me have a hero who can appeal across generational divides and one who can be counted on to inspire to action.
W.E. Johns not only saved Britain from invasion by providing the skilled force to do it, he has given us a hero worth acknowledging as worthy of the name.
Persian Fetta
I need to preface this with an explanation for foreigners. IGA is a chain of small supermarkets which are in most country towns. They make an effort to engage with the community, but their range is usually limited and prices often high due to the freight costs.
As evidence that we are in the yuppie end of the country, our local IGA sells Persian Fetta Cheese.
As evidence that we are in the yuppie end of the country, our local IGA sells Persian Fetta Cheese.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)