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NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 29.1.04

On the windowsill in the kitchen, there is a little picture frame. It contains a small verse, rough-hewn from some publication. It carries the name of no author. It is only four lines and whenever I read it, I get a pricking sensation at the back of the eyes. It brings back so many memories. It is headed simply –

“In Memory of Tatters, July 1988 – October 2002.”

“Oh God my Master. Should I gain the grace

To see Thee face to face when life is ended

Grant that a little dog, who once pretended

That I was God, may see me face to face.”

Since I was a little boy, there has always been a ‘Tatters’ in my life. I have loved them dearly, given them as good a life as I could and the final blessing of a quick and pain free exit from this world. I simply cannot imagine life without a ‘Tatters’ to love, to be infuriated by and eventually to mourn. As a child, I asked where dogs went after the hole dug in the orchard. I was told that they went to the ‘Happy Hunting Ground’. Now I do not know what Heaven may be like, or whether I shall get through Security and Immigration. What I do know is that I do not intend to spend eternity taking harp lessons, or polishing my halo. I shall pick up my bonnet and my stick and ask the first angel that I meet the way to the ‘Happy Hunting Ground.’ There I trust and pray that I shall meet again all the various ‘Tatters’ who gave me so much love and joy, throughout my earthly life.

Back to earth with a bump – I am frequently asked how I feel about a Regional Parliament? Quite simply I am agin’ it. It would merely add yet another layer to the already bloated and rotten bureaucracy that provides a major buggeration factor to all our lives and wallets. The assertion that it would add to local democracy is just a load of bovine waste product. I have made a small study of the workings of District Councils. Locally elected Councillors, who are supposedly aware of our local needs and worries, supposedly run these. They may indeed be aware of the problems and even be sympathetic to them, but when push comes to shove they are powerless when it comes to getting any action. The power in local authorities lies with local government officials. These men and women are so entrenched and embedded in ‘the System’ that no matter how useless, ineffectual and idle they may be, they know that they cannot be dismissed. At best they can be shunted into a cosy political siding, where they can sit, reading the Guardian, pushing bits of paper around and drawing their salaries until such times as they can draw the index linked and copper bottomed pensions, coughed up by the hapless working taxpayer. A NE Regional Government would simply be the same writ large. Our egregious National Government is pushing for the RGs like mad and with all John Prescott’s considerable bulk because they know that RGs would be run by people from the major conurbations. There the local Labour Mafias have been entrenched for generations and would see to it that ‘Local Democracy’ would have a permanent left wing slant. This would be enthusiastically strengthened by an increase in Local Government Officials, who would all rely on the local payroll vote for their daily bread – liberally spread with Taxpayer’s butter and jam. The last thing we need, or want, is more snouts in the public trough.

The outbreak of BSE in the US of A has rekindled some old thoughts and worries. I admit that it is totally unnatural to feed living bovines the ground - up remains of their deceased cousins, but I have never been convinced that this is, or was, the true cause of BSE. For many years, farmers were obliged by MAFF to treat cattle for Warble Fly by pouring a liquid dressing along the their backs. We were entreated to perform this job with great caution, as the liquid was systemic and highly toxic. At the same time, we were obliged to dip our sheep, against the Scab in a specific type of dip. Both the dip and the Warble Fly dressing contained Organo Phosphorous. Ask any boffin from the Porton Down Chemical Warfare Establishment and they will (might / ought to) admit that OP is a particularly nasty bit of work and an important agent in Nerve Gas, which attacks the central nervous system. For three years I did contract sheep dipping, doing some 40,000 sheep a year. I gave it up because it made me ill. I developed ‘flu like symptoms similar to some of the symptoms in Gulf War Syndrome. As I understand it OPs were used extensively in the first Gulf War as an insect repellent. Several farmers and shepherds have experienced similar symptoms. In all of this, OP is the common factor. The Government has refused to admit to any responsibility – it would wouldn’t it? The political and financial fall out would be too terrible to contemplate.

PS: Will all Old Coldstreamers please get a grip and contact Bob Stuart (0191 267 4258) about the Remembrance Trip 20 – 29 September. Some of you are being idle little men – so let’s be having you.

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NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 22.1.04
This should be regarded as a cautionary tale and on no account should any of you attempt this at home. I did what was - as was pointed out to me at the time and has been constantly since - a very stupid thing. My problem is that I suffer from a perverse (some say perverted) sense of humour, which has frequently led me into trouble. The Irish have a saying for it - "Is minic a bhris beal duine a shron" (there should be lots of acute accents in that, but my computer does not do Native Irish). Working on the basis that most Journal readers do not 'do' Native Irish either, that roughly translates as:" It's often a fella's mouth broke his nose." Very true and as we shall see rather apt. I was going to fly to Dublin to speak at an Irish Hunting Seminar (in English - very few Native Irish speak Native Irish). I was to fly Ryan Air for the first and as things turned out, probably the last time. I checked in and was going through Security. My coat and bag were going through the machine, so I was in shirt and trousers, when I went through the gate. It pinged, so I automatically assumed the crucifixion position, whilst the little man patted and prodded me and asked if I had anything sharp in my pockets? He looked sad and bored, so to cheer him up, I said that I had not, but that I hoped he would not find my concealed Ruger .357 Magnum. Three points here: 1) A Ruger .357 Magnum is a pistol the size of a small howitzer. It is not something that can be concealed in a shirt and trousers. 2) The sad little man had already patted me down and found nothing 3) It was an unlikely remark for a potential terrorist to make. None the less, he turned even paler and leaped back as thought I had bitten him. The manure then hit the fan. I was herded into a corner. 08 was summoned, him being head of security. More security men hovered. The airline manager (a delightful lady) was called for. A nice policeman arrived. I was now herded into an empty office, where the nice policeman gave me a good rollicking and told me that I was liable for arrest under the Public Order Act, for spreading alarm and despondency, but on this occasion, he was not minded to arrest me. The nice lady had to consult Ryan Air. Ryan Air banned me. And that was that. I was grounded and the Seminar would know me not - "Me mouth truly broke me nose." A nice Irish lady from the Seminar rang me that night. I apologised profusely. She said ah not at all. There had been a Gaelic Footballer at the seminar who had done something similar in America and had spent 3 days in the slammer and that Ryan Air was a load of… That is my cautionary tale and my cautionary advice is that if you are intending to fly, be sure and leave your sense of humour on the mantelpiece at home. Ah well - a final Irish blessing to Ryan Air - "Pog ma Thoin!"

Of course I know that international terrorism is a matter that should concern us all. I just wonder if it should concern us all as much as various Governments would like it to. It provides a wonderful excuse for Governments to control and bully people. I am old enough to remember Food Rationing. It was brought in as an emergency measure during the Hitler War and was continued by the then Labour Government long after it ceased to be necessary. The late Herbert Morrison (Mandelson's Grand-dad) fought tooth and nail against the lifting of rationing restrictions. The reason for this was that he and his civil servants had found it a wonderful way of controlling people - all in the National Interest, of course. The Prevention of Terrorism Act has a tremendous potential for controlling civil disaffection. A person can be arrested without charge and held and interrogated incommunicado without benefit of a lawyer - all in the National Interest of course. Who defines what constitutes Terrorism? The Government. Let us not forget that during the Fuel Protest of recent memory, the Government wanted to use the Ministry of Defence Police (the 'Mod Plods') whose reputation is not entirely savoury. The MODP is responsible to no local Police Committee or Chief Constable, but only to the Defence Minister. In other words, it would have constituted private government police force acting on the whim and will of the Government. It was fortunate that the Government was constrained by law from doing this. It is even more fortunate that the Government was constrained from changing the law by prompt and vigorous action in the Lords. The civil liberties that we take for granted are being continuously and stealthily eroded and the envelope that protects them is very fragile and easily punctured. Action against terrorism, real or imagined, could rip it to shreds - all in the National Interest, of course.

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NEWCASTLE JOURNAL - 15.1.04
I heard that admirable man Alistair Mitchell on the Beeb this morning. He was pointing out that the TV License Fee was a racket and that it was in fact a concealed Poll Tax - you have to have one whether you watch the Beeb or not. I thoroughly agree with him. Mitchell, by the way, runs a major PR firm in Newcastle and is a scourge of smug bureaucracy (actually that is a tautology - all bureaucrats are smug - it is the huge pensions we pay them). He certainly scourges the Beeb, which richly deserves scourging - it is fat, complacent and run by Jobsworths. Politically, it has a permanent leftward slant. This may be due to the fact that it only advertises job vacancies in the Guardian. When quizzed on this, it blandly replies that it can fill all its vacancies from that great, good and sometimes silly newspaper, so why waste money by advertising elsewhere? This is a fine example of casuistry, which (in case you do not have your Chamber's Dictionary to hand) is a - "plausibly deceptive fallacy". This may account for the fact that some refer to the Beeb as the "Bolshevik Broadcasting Corporation." Be that as it may, those of us who enjoy watching Telly are obliged to pay for the Beeb's output of pigswill whether we watch it or not. In my case it is a definite 'or not'. I watch the Channel 4 news and although I do not always agree with it, it is far and away the best-presented news programme. Now I am quite happy to pay to watch something I want to watch. I watch quite a few Sky Movies. I have to pay for them, but I have the choice. I have no choice about paying for the pap that the Beeb churns out and, like Mitchell, I object to this imposition. We should have a choice of what we pay for:" Ho! Ho!" I hear you say - "Wor Willy's just screwed up his chances of ever working for the BBC." I know that. I will tell you a little tale: Once upon a time, there was a TV programme called "One Man and his Dog." It may not be generally known that this programme was the brainchild of a BBC producer who watched the Sheep Dog trials at Glanton Show. For many years this was presented by dear old Phil Drabble. When he was coming up for retirement, I was interviewed as a possible replacement. Indeed it was between Robin Page and myself. They chose Robin, although they have never had the courtesy to inform me. However, I have a mole in the Beeb, who told me that I had been rejected because I was deemed to be - "Too Sandhurst," and they reckoned (wrongly, as it turned out) that they could do something about Robin's hair, but nothing about my moustache. They were right there - my moustache is non negotiable. In the end they stabbed Robin in the back too. Every journalist should have sign on their desk - "Watch your back." I certainly have one on mine.

I had stopped up by the Scotch Fence the other day, to remove my over trousers - an unusual happening on top of the Cheviots in January. Then I paused to listen to the silence and to look at the great hills rolling away into the distance. As I stood there, the winter sun suddenly found a gap in the cloud and the hills were bathed in the most wonderful light, with cloud shadows racing across the fells. It is moments of extraordinary beauty like that, that make me love the Cheviots so much. On the way down the hill, I stopped to talk to a couple of hikers. I always have a word with hikers, to study their reactions - some are friendly, some are sullen and some are just rude - obviously thinking that the locals are not worthy of their interest. This couple was the friendly sort. They asked what we were doing and I told them that we were hunting. The female, a most comely lady, told me that she was a 'Fox Control Officer' from New South Wales and was obviously taking a professional interest. As we parted, hounds opened up in the plantation below. Her parting words were:" I hope you catch the bugger." A fair dinkum sheila, I reckoned.

I am very grateful to those who have replied to my question about the existence of a Northumbrian Language Society. I understand that there is and it is alive and well, living in Morpeth and in the process of producing a new Northumbrian dictionary. I have applied to join the Society and have put my name down for a copy of the dictionary. I await further developments with keen interest.

I was rather interested by the words of Dr John Reid who is a Government Minister. I get confused with Labour Ministers - is he the one with big ears who never shaves properly? He was answering a question as to whether there should not be a total ban on smoking? To this he replied that - "to ban smoking, making criminals of normal people would be extreme." Yes Minister - and Hunting?

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NEWCASTLE JOURNAL FOR 8.1.04
I seldom fly these days. For London, it is expensive and uncomfortable and you have the horrors of Newcastle Airport at one end and Heathrow at the other. In theory the journey time is quicker, but I reckon that, door to door, from Home to Central London there is not much in it. GNER is cheaper, more comfortable and much more user friendly. Nor is the 0746 from Newcastle to Kings X likely to be hi- jacked for the purpose of blowing up Birmingham New Street - although anyone who has been to Birmingham New Street, might feel a certain sympathy for the hi-jackers. But back to flying: to read the papers you would think that the Sky Marshals were a bran new idea. Back in the 1980s, I was flying from Atlanta (Georgia) to Washington DC, or possibly Philadelphia - one forgets. Sitting at the back of the plane was a fat man with a ragged moustache and a stained tie. The size of his belly prevented him from doing up his coat, so that I could plainly see the butt of a revolver. I mentioned this to a stewardess and she just said oh, that was just the Sky Marshall, as though it was a normal thing, which no doubt it was and most likely is. I have to say that the answer will lie in the training. The man I saw certainly did not inspire confidence. If we are to have men (or women in this era of equal opportunities) loosing off pistols on British aeroplanes, then I hope they will be trained to a very high standard. My Mole in the Regiment that May Not Speak its Name, says that the standard of Police firearms training is p.poor. More policemen are shot by other policemen than by the bad guys. So where is the Government going to conjure up all these highly trained operatives in time for the next afternoon flight to Washington? DC that is, not Co Durham.

The old people certainly knew how to place their houses. The old house lies in a sheltered basin where two burns meet. I have seen a picture of it. It was a fine square stone house with a grove of ash trees that gave it extra shelter from the wind. I often park the van there and ride on over the top on the quad. I parked there yesterday. The wind that was howling across the hills, but down by the pile of stones that is all that is left of the house, it was only a gentle breeze. As I breasted the rim of the basin the N.W.gale hit me full in the face and made my eyes water - hooshyerbugger! But it was rough. I bumped my way up the old green road to the ridge where a cluster of vehicles denoted the meet - right at the road end and on the edge of the known world. There were no horses - there was still too much ice about. As usual, several people asked me if I thought there would be a scent (hounds hunt a fox by its scent). For some reason I am regarded as an authority on scent, which I am not and neither is anyone else. As our great local author Robert Smith Surtees wrote:" There's nothing so queer as scent, except a woman." By which he meant that it was a very kittle business. I have a stock answer, which is:" Ask me this evening." But it was quickly clear that there was a scent. Hounds found in the windblow of a small plantation. They rattled the fox round there for a bit, then went away like stoor straight up into the cloud wrack that was still blowing across the high tops. "Old dogs for hard roads" they say. There were bog holes and peat haggs under that cloud, so I went round by the hard track and dropped into the next valley just as hounds came singing along out of the mist, racing down the hill to catch their fox in the sheep pens at the steading below. We set out back into the hills. This is some of the roughest and wildest hill country in England and crossing it is a challenge in itself. I make a point of following the quad tracks that the herds make on their daily round, if they don't know the best road across the bogs and the bull snouts, then no one does. Hounds quickly found another fox in a rusher bed. Foxes depend on scent to feed themselves, so they understand its imperatives - on a bad scenting day they will dawdle about, cock a leg, or even do a bit of mousing. They knew fine that this was not a day to dawdle and especially not with the Border Hounds. I have hunted with something like 150 packs of foxhounds and I reckon the Border hounds are the fastest I have known. They caught their 5th and last fox in the moonlight:" Better by moonlight" was one of the old Reiver slogans.

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NEWCASTLE JOURNAL FOR 1.1.04
A very Happy New Year to you all - and how are we all feeling this fine bright (or whatever) new morning? A little eyesy perhaps? A little man doing some riveting in the heid perhaps? Shall you breakfast off strong tea and a lightly boiled aspirin? Or shall you just moan, pull the duvet over your head and pray for death? I think it is possible that some of us may have overindulged ourselves last night - after all it was Old Year's Night. Before I moved to Northumberland from the soft south, I had never heard of Old Year's Night. In the south, it was New Year's Eve and an occasion for mild mollicking and frolicking - all in the best possible taste, you understand. Nothing had prepared me for the rugged yomp, followed by a quick burst over the assault course, which may be said to represent Old Year's Night in the Borders. Did you know that Northumberland is reputed to have the highest per capita whisky consumption in England? Well, neither did I - then. I do now. It is fortunate that I have a considerable ability to consume whisky in considerable quantity, always provided that I do not try it on an empty stomach. There was a never to be forgotten night, when I was booked in to a smart dinner party on Old Year's Night. I had been hunting and had been persuaded to call in for 'a quick dram' on my way home. At this point I must make another point - I had passed the day fuelled only by a ham sandwich and a flask of tea, but a quick dram surely would not hurt? Put me in the party mood, I shouldn't wonder. But cut to the chase, as they say, at the moment when I should have been ringing my host's doorbell - clean, dry and lightly oiled and squeezed into my dinner jacket - I was still sitting in the pub, trapped in a corner by two of the larger sort of hill herd and singing 'Jock of Hazeldene' and still covered from head to toe in drying bog mould (I had fallen comprehensively in a flough). In a bleary sort of way, I counted the drams lined up before me on the table. I counted (and there is no word of a lie in this - there is a photograph that hangs in the pub to prove it) 14, or fourteen, if you prefer, which kind and, I am sure, well-intentioned folk had bought for me. My common sense temporarily reasserted itself and told me that in no way could I ingest that little lot on top of the not a little lot that I had already consumed. In a calm and collected way, I conveyed my doubts to the assembled company. It lacked sympathy, but provided practical help by providing a pint glass and pouring the assembled whiskies into it. To add to the occasion the helpful management included a straw (free of charge) to drink it with: " Howway, Man" they said - "get it doon ye." And I did. Then mindful of the fact that I was expecting to mix with smart company - they took me out into the yard, hosed me down and sent me home in the back of a pick-up truck. The other thing about 'Old Year's Night' is the dancing. I can canter round a dance floor with the best of them. Northumbrian dancing is different and reminds me of nothing so much as the happy hours I spent being wiped all over the walls of the gym by a diminutive psychopath called Staff Sergeant Thomas. His great slogan was - "Get him down and give him some pain." He succeeded, bless his heart. I was especially reminded of him when, at a party up the Breamish Valley, a comely lady persuaded me into an eight-some reel (she had a very professional wrist lock on me at the time) and whilst we were prancing and 'heughing' about, she felled me with a step-over toe hold and nearly broke my leg. My other unfortunate experience was with 'The Drops of Brandy' a dance where you get twirled from arm to arm down a double row of hardy men and women with muscular arms - so muscular that they can get a very fair top spin even on a 19 stone man. Should this man fail to contact with the wicket keeper at the bottom, his muzzle velocity may be such as to spin him like a top across the room and into the china cabinet at the far end. The resulting damage may be considerable, nor does the china come out well. That was it for me. At the first sign and sound of a Gay Gordon, I used to go and lock myself in the loo and I reckoned that Old Year's Night could get on very well without me. These days I celebrate in front of the fire with my pipe, my book and mebbe's a bit dram. By the time Old Year's Night becomes New Year's Day, I reckon to be tucked up in bed and fast asleep. As for all you determined revellers, I wish you:
" Arl the Best!"

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