Steve Hayes reviews the classic celestial fantasy, filmed in glorious Technicolor in England at the end of World War II, based on the play by the great Noel Coward. Never mind what the critics said at the time, or later - this is a beautifully filmed, delightfully upper-crust comedy of the kind that isn't made anymore. And darling Margaret Rutherford, the old dear, is a complete hoot! If you've never seen it, your're in for a treat - enjoy!
Bonus: The English country house that was used for exterior shots is still standing just outside London, and just as lovely as it looks in the film. Check out the real estate listing from 2019 to see some stunning photos of the inside and outside.
ITV reports from Flamstead, about 30 miles north of London:
The Guardian reports today that the hawk has been captured by an exasperated victim who managed to drop a cage over it in his garden.
I don't know what the game laws are over here, but I can promise you that bird wouldn't have lasted five minutes in any Texas town. The men would have been reaching for their guns, not their hats.
Your Head Trucker remembers fondly the delicious pleasure of reading Pride and Prejudice some forty-odd years ago. Here is a short tour through the home of the beloved author in Hampshire, England, about fifty miles southwest of London:
Bonus: The nearby Chawton House, one of the homes owned by Jane's wealthy brother Edward.
Alfred Eisenstat's famous photo of the "Kissing Sailor" in Times Square on VJ Day, as originally published in black and white in Life, and as colorized by Swedish artist Sanna Dullaway in 2012. Click to enlarge.
World War II ended 70 years ago yesterday. Here are some scenes of jubilant crowds in America and England celebrating the victory in the warm August sunshine - and getting a little rowdy too.
Life magazine published some fascinating pictures taken that week around the United States, showing what life was like for ordinary folks, as well as some interesting commentary on what the end of the war meant for the world and its future. Worth a look here.
A guest post by my truckbuddy Tim from England, now resident in Spain:
A while ago I said Russ and I had been planning a piece to mark the 70th anniversary of the end of World War Two in Europe, and in particular our fathers’ adventures in it. Well here is Part 1, which takes us to the end of 1943. Next week Part 2 will follow Bill and Ted to VE-Day and beyond.
It is sadly typical of most father-son relationships that the son never thinks to ask the most important questions of his father’s life until it is too late. And especially something like their wartime experiences. Most men of our fathers’ generation, those who served in WWII, couldn’t wait to return to normality after the years of conflict. They placed their memories and experiences of those years in a box marked ‘Do Not Open’, what is now termed ‘compartmentalising’. And we, of course, being young, thought war a glamorous adventure and didn’t comprehend our fathers’ reticence when asked about the subject. And when we grew and matured, and could better understand their experiences, all we had to go on were fragmented verbal histories and any mementos our fathers left us.
So this has been a voyage of discovery for Russ and me. My father, Ted, left a treasure trove of documents and bric-a-brac from the war, which, somehow, has survived and ultimately come into my possession. Sadly, Bill died just as Russ was approaching manhood, and he left few mementos of his wartime exploits. A few coins from France and Belgium, even a NYC subway token. And a few buttons and insignia from his uniforms. “All fun to look through when I was a kid,” recalls Russ. However, Russ and I have been able to add some detail to what is available and we enjoyed the detective work. It was gratifying to be able to find some more pieces of the jigsaw!
By the way, I use the word Adventures in the title advisedly. With the names Bill and Ted, I couldn’t resist the title, and for the two young men concerned it most certainly was an adventure, in the truest sense of the word; but not necessarily one they, or any of us, would care to repeat. However, it made them the men they were; and we are our father’s sons, are we not?
So let’s make the introductions. This is Bill Manley, circa 1941; Russ recalls he always had a sense of style in his clothing. He certainly looks very dapper here.
Bill was born in Florida in 1913 and enlisted in 1942, aged 29. He was trained, we think, as a radio/electrical mechanic; specializing in radar, then the latest technology. He rose to the rank of Corporal, but it was a bumpy path and he was certainly ‘busted’ at least once!
Ted Turner was born in Kent in 1919, one of two identical twins. This photo shows him in the RAF Volunteer Reserve Band in 1938, aged 19. He was called up for national service in November of the following year. He trained as an engine fitter and reached the rank of sergeant.
It strikes me that they both look so happy in these images; it was the calm before the storm. There’ll be some other characters appearing as well, connected in one way or another with Bill and Ted’s’ adventures.
Ted joins the RAF
Ted entered National Service, along with his identical twin brother Fred, on 1st November 1939. They completed initial RAF training at RAF Cardington, once the home of the famous R100 and R101 airships. Here is their course photo, some three weeks into the course. Pa is top far right; Fred is bottom far right, with his hands on his knees. This was the only time Ted and Fred served together; Ted’s career centred mainly on fighters, whilst Fred’s was with bombers. Their course NCO, the corporal in the centre, with his arms folded, looks a most useful chap!
I remember Pa telling me about the two massive hangars that were built to house the airships, each 812’ long and 157’ high. For a young man used to a family of 8 living in a 2-bedroomed cottage, the vast emptiness of the hangars must have been awe-inspiring.
Ted begins Trade Training
After this basic training – square-bashing, as it was known – where he learnt the rudiments of service life, marching, saluting, etc, Ted moved to RAF Henlow, near London, in early 1940. His notebooks are marked ‘Hut 89, No. 1(T) Wing, No. 1 Squadron. This is where he was taught about basic mechanics as they related to aircraft, but by April he had moved to the Fitters School, and was specialising in aero engines. His notebooks detail the in and outs of fuel pumps, starter motors, propeller shafts and lubricating systems. It must have been very intensive, with practical work mixing with classroom studies. Fortunately for Ted, and the RAF, this was the so-called phoney war period, before the Luftwaffe turned its sights on Britain.
Looking through my father’s notebooks of the time, it was intriguing to see how quickly his handwriting changed. At first, during his initial training it looks much as mine does now: untidy and uneven, nervous. But after a couple of months it settles down into the small, neat, confident style I remember him having from my childhood. Precise, and economical, the curves and loops are now tightened and drawn in. The style tells me he was maturing rapidly in these early war days. He was left-handed, by the way.
Ted in the Battle of Britain
When the battle of Britain started, the RAF became the Luftwaffe’s prime target. Ted was posted to RAF Duxford, near Cambridge, one of the major fighter bases protecting London. Most of the RAF’s fighter bases along England’s east and south coasts came under attack during the battle; high-level bombing, low-level strafing, and dive bombing interspersed with hit-and-run attacks by lone fighters. In this picture a bomb explodes on the parade ground at RAF Helmswell, no square-bashing for them.
It was during one low-level attack that Ted first saw action. He told me of being caught out in the open on the airfield, with no immediate shelter. Most servicing on fighter aircraft was done outside and not in hangars. He and his fellow airmen picked up their rifles and fired at the enemy aircraft, probably a Dornier or Junkers light bomber. The small calibre Lee-Enfield rifles had precious little chance of downing the bomber, and being out in the open was a perilous situation; but at the time he felt he was “doing his bit” when he told me the tale years later. Here a Spitfire sits under attack in its dispersal area, surrounded by clouds of dust raised by machine gun fire.
At Duxford Ted was part of 19 Squadron, the first to be equipped with the legendary Spitfire. In those days servicing was not centralised, and all the ground crew belonged to one particular squadron or other. This little video gives an idea of the ground crew’s various roles.
I’ve always loved this image of an airman re-arming a 19 Squadron Spitfire. It looks so much like my Pa, although it isn’t. It's actually a chap by the name of Fred Roberts. I wonder if he knew Pa?
Each aircraft had a dedicated team of an armourer, a fitter and the rigger, who maintained the airframe. There would be specialist technicians for the radio, instruments and electrics. But although he specialised in engines, like all ground crew, Ted would have been expected to help out wherever he was needed. One such duty was helping the pilots into their aircraft, the bulky parachutes and tight cockpits made getting into and out of the small fighters difficult at the best of times. And for some, more than others, for Duxford was also home to one Squadron Leader Douglas Bader, the famous legless fighter ace. My father recalled helping Bader into his aircraft on several occasions.
“He was not a particularly pleasant man to know and disliked by many of the men. He was short-tempered and looked down on anyone who wasn’t an officer.”
Pity then, the poor airmen who caught him in a bad mood! But his controversial ‘Big Wing’ tactics, massing the fighters against the incoming bombers, would prove very successful against the daylight raids on London and other major cities during the blitz. Such is the stuff of heroes.
When the Battle of Britain was over, the RAF took time to recover its losses and re-equip. Ted began to specialise on servicing and maintaining the famous Roll-Royce Merlin engine. Courses with Rolls-Royce at their factories in Derby and Glasgow were to keep him busy for almost two years, interspersed with duty at various operational airfields, during which time he also took up Freemasonry! He joined the Glasgow Lodge in January 1942, and remained a member throughout the rest of the war. At the time he also joined the Royal Antediluvian Order of Buffaloes, another fraternal organisation! He must have missed his large family, and especially his twin brother. They were inseparable as children, especially in that form of mischief that only twins can manage. Grandpa couldn’t tell them apart, and so he would punish them both if one had been misbehaving! I think he must have found the constant round of courses, with no fixed abode, difficult without having some sort of social outlet. He was always a very sociable man, and would always greet everyone he met, whether he knew them or not, which mystified me greatly as a small child! So his Freemasonry and membership of the ‘Buffs’ was, I suppose, an antidote to the strictures of training and service life and to the loneliness at being away from family and friends.
Eager Eagle - Jimmy Nelson
Meanwhile, across the Atlantic, some Americans couldn’t wait to join the war effort. The deeds of the Lafayette Escadrille, the squadron of American volunteers in the First World War, became legendary. When the Second World War came there was again no lack of volunteers, but the fall of France shattered the idea of a revival of the Lafayette. However, the RAF had inspired Americans with their gallant defence in the Battle of Britain. The New York Times wrote in August 1940, ‘During these crucial days the quality and spirit of the Royal Air Force have been written into the Great Legend.’ Many American pilots wished to be part of that legend and to fly that aircraft which had so captured their imagination – the Spitfire.
One such pilot was James (Jimmy) Nelson. Here pictured in the cockpit of his Spitfire and looking the epitome of a dashing young fighter pilot.
His tale is typical of many. Born in Denver, Colorado, in 1919, Jimmy learned to fly when studying at university. Having first enlisted in the Royal Canadian Air Force, he came to England in July 1941, and joined the new 133 Squadron, one of the three Eagle Squadrons in the RAF composed of United States nationals who wished to fight before their country had entered hostilities. The first Eagle Squadron formed in October 1940. In May 1942 the Squadron became part of Douglas Bader’s ‘Big Wing’, joining Pa’s 19 Squadron at Biggin Hill. When America officially entered the war, the Eagle Squadrons became part of the US 8th Air Force. However, Jimmy chose to stay with the RAF and served with distinction until the end of the war.
Bill joins up and starts training
Following America’s mobilization in December 1941, Bill was drafted in April the following year as a Private into what was then the Army Air Corps, soon to be known as the USAAF. His trade training took him all over the United States - Florida, Missouri, Illinois, and California. Russ also has some of Bill’s class notes placing him in Texas, at Shepard Air Base in Wichita Falls, where aviation mechanics were trained. This varied itinerary was due to the fact that at the time many technical courses were run by the manufacturers of the equipment rather than the fledgling USAAF itself, which had yet to develop its own training programme. It’s not clear what trade Bill took up, but our best guess, based on available evidence, is that he trained as a radio/electrical mechanic.
Russ remembers: “My grandmother said that the all men in daddy's family - she of course had known several generations of them - were always "strong minded" - by which homely phrase she meant, not stubborn, but smart. She often recalled when my daddy as a schoolboy had, on his own, worked though all the problems in a math book (this was when they were still living in the depths of the countryside) - and when checked by a teacher, it was discovered that he had gotten every one of the answers right, save one. So it might well be that during the war his aptitude for math would have gotten him shunted into work with those complicated systems.”
Bill arrives in England
In early 1943, having completed his training, Bill was posted to England, to RAF Rougham in East Anglia, home to several squadrons of B-17 Flying Fortress bombers, and part of the 94th Bombardment Group, 8th Air Force. A history of the 94th BG can be found here: http://www.8thafhs.org/ourhistory.htm Although the aircraft didn’t arrive until June that year, most of the ground mechanics arrived in March, having sailed from New York aboard a Liberty ship. This one is braving the Atlantic in winter, conditions on board must have been dire.
Having survived the crossing of the U-boat-infested Atlantic, I’m sure Bill’s first task was to secure his accommodation at the newly constructed airfield. Then began the intense preparation for the arrival of the aircraft and flight crews. Four squadrons, some 40 aircraft, were based at Rougham. Here one of the Fortresses checks for directions!
Russ’s Ma told him that Bill worked on “some new-fangled radar devices.” The use of airborne radar by the USAAF was very limited at that time, and only one bombing group were equipped with radar, the 482nd Pathfinder unit, based at RAF Alconbury, 52 miles away from Rougham. They were a very specialised unit, and led other non-radar equipped aircraft to their targets. So there was no airborne radar at Rougham. However, their remains another possibility. Towards the middle of the war, systems called Electronic Counter Measures (ECM) were developed. These were airborne devices designed to jam, or fool, enemy radars, be they on the ground, in aircraft or in the radar fuses fitted to some anti-aircraft shells. Whilst radars were secret, the principles were well known on either side. Countermeasures however, were even more highly classified because they negated the advantage of radar. To this day, electronic countermeasures remain the most hush-hush of devices.
Now from the time Bill was at Rougham, ECM was available to the Allies, though not in sufficient numbers for wide-scale use, so in a typical B-17 Squadron, one in five aircraft would be equipped. Rougham would therefore have had some eight specialised ECM fitted aircraft. This is what we think Bill may have worked on, not a radar device, but an anti-radar device. It would also explain to some extent why he never discussed the detail of his work, as it was extremely secret.
As in the RAF, Army Air Force mechanics, having been taught general servicing techniques would have then specialised, e.g. engines, airframes, armament, or radio and navigation. The guys who specialised in the radio and navigation equipment would have been the logical choice for the new areas of radar and ECM when they arrived later in the war, so it’s likely Bill would have followed that career progression.
Most radio and electronic servicing was carried out in buildings adjacent to, or in, the aircraft hangars. Rougham had a small building called the Radar Building, near the Control Tower, which housed the airfield radar and radio equipment. It is probable this is where the ECM equipment would also have been serviced and repaired, as the necessary facilities would already be in place. The building was more easily guarded than the hangars, and would have had much more secure conditions of entry and exit for such highly classified equipment. The Radar Building at Rougham still exists and was renovated in 2005. This could be where Bill actually worked!
The squadrons at Rougham took part in some notable raids, and like most Bomber Groups suffered very heavy casualties. The ground crew took great pride in their’ bird’, and its crew, and would await their safe return anxiously. Here ground crew work on a B-17 named Hell’s Angels.
But it wasn’t all work and no play for Bill. He managed to find time for a little romance too! Russ recalls some of his father’s possessions:
“And in another box I have some tiny wartime snapshots, some of them unknown buddies of his no doubt, and quite a few of Jackie, the English girl from the neighbourhood of Bury, whom he apparently loved very much - she was quite young, still a teenager but wanted to be a dancer - in some pictures she's doing the glamour girl pin-up poses in those modest two-piece bathing suits of the era - but sexy stuff back then I'm sure. And a couple of letters from her to him - poignant to read. In one of them, she says she misses him very much, and has saved the peel from the orange he gave her, and is keeping it on her windowsill. I know with the strict rationing in England at that time, an orange must have seemed like a grand treat indeed.”
It’s easy to understand the culture shock the young American airmen must have experienced on their arrival. This flat, foggy landscape and its inhabitants with their strange dialect. Just as well they brought a little bit of home with them; their language, customs, music and food soon filled airfields throughout eastern England. And how did the locals feel? Land, until then ploughed by shire horses, was now suddenly under concrete and under guard. Jazz, blues, jive music, chewing gum. And one can only guess at what they made of the Wabash Cannon Ball, one of Bill’s favourite tunes.
Did Bill and sweetheart Jackie dance to it at the Junior NCOs Club or the village Church Hall? I do hope so! However, by the look of things, the boys couldn’t wait for Jackie to arrive!
And I’m sure Bill and his comrades played it on a wind-up record player as they sat around the stove pipe heater in their hut, thousands of miles from home in this cold and clammy foreign land; hoping their crews and aircraft would return safely to Rougham. Sadly, in those early days, many did not.
Ted at RAF Turnhouse – the mid 1940’s
In February 1943 Ted was promoted to the rank of Sergeant and posted to RAF Turnhouse, near Edinburgh. This was where the battle-weary fighter squadrons were rested and re-equipped, away from the front line. Here is the photo he sent to his childhood sweetheart back home in Kent, on the back, in that neat hand, a simple message ‘With love from Ted’.
It shows a young man who has matured during four years of war, he looks, more confident, more self-assured.
He maintained his membership of the Masons, as the receipt for his membership of the Bo’ness Lodge shows. But before the year ended he was back with Rolls-Royce at Derby for yet more training, but this time it was to have an American twist.
Next time . . .
By the end of ‘43, plans were well advanced for the Allied invasion of Europe and also for a renewed offensive in the far-east. 1944 was to have big things in store for both Bill and Ted. Travel and action, hardship and a VIP-lifestyle, all will figure in Part 2.
The late Clarissa Dickson Wright explores some of the recipes in The Forme of Cury (The Forms of Cooking), a 14th-century cookbook written on vellum from the kitchen of King Richard II:
A guest post by my truckbuddy Tim from England, now resident in Spain.
Remember a while back, in a post entitled "He’s So Fine – Part 1", I wrote about a B-17 Flying Fortress coming to my local airfield at RAF Manston in 1961. It was there for filming the movie The War Lover, starring Steve McQueen. Well, this post is about that airfield, and its prominent role in and throughout my life. I set out to write a piece about summer outings in the countryside with my parents when I was a child; but found I kept returning to the old wartime airfield as I wrote the piece. Well, I can take a hint, the countryside tale will have to wait, but Ma and Pa will still figure in this post, and so does Christmas. Tis’ the season . . . etc.
OK, just one more look at Steve. This moody image of him captures the feel of what I hope is a reflective piece today. Unusual to see him with stubble, a nice change though, what do you think?
To set the tale in some sort of historical and geographical context a few words and images by way of explanation first– yes, this is the science bit! My home area is called the Isle of Thanet, in the south-eastern corner of England, facing France and Belgium just a few miles across the grey waters of the English Channel.
Although no longer a ‘real’ island, it was once, being separated from the mainland by a shallow channel called the Wantsum. The Wantsum gradually silted up, aided and abetted by the local Monks who wanted more power which then as now equated to land, and so Thanet made a permanent connection to the rest of the county of Kent, around the time of the 15th Century.
But the ‘Isle’ tag remained, and with it a somewhat insular outlook on life on the part of the inhabitants, typical of most island people. ‘Planet Thanet’ it is called with varying degrees of affection by those who never leave and by those, who like me, have escaped its gravitational pull! With no close family ties remaining after Ma’s death a few years ago, I have little reason to visit it these days, but like my parents, the place always remains in my thoughts. And Manston, in particular, holds a specials place in my affection. Just as my parents provided love and physical nourishment to a growing boy, Manston fed not only my childhood hobbies but also my dreams. Together they inspired my desire to make a career in aviation.
Living on what in effect is now a peninsula, means your freedom of travel is somewhat limited, and because the large airfield at Manston commands a central location on the isle, it was a place you always had to go around to get anywhere else. This was not a problem for ‘young’ Tim and whenever we set forth on a family outing I would insist we either went, or came back, via Manston. Pa never minded, but I suspect Ma was not so enthusiastic about aeroplanes as I was! The airfield site, shaded grey in the image above covers some 800 acres today, and was probably double that back in the 1950’s. The wide single runway remains the fourth longest in the UK. Here’s a bird’s eye view of the real thing.
My first memories, when I was about 3, are of driving past the ‘fairy lights’ at night. All roads then took you close to the runway or the taxi-ways, and the different coloured lights glowed and winked in the dark, just like the lights on a Christmas tree. I don’t think I knew what an airfield was then, but those lights gave the place a magical quality which hinted of further mysteries to be discovered; feelings that stayed with me in the years to come.
As I got older, those mysteries were gradually revealed, and I came to understand what an airfield was, who lived and worked there, and what aircraft flew in and out. The aircraft became my abiding passion and Manston was the means of fuelling it. But the connections were not only physical ones, there were family ties too. Ma’s father had served there as an Admiralty Clerk when Manston first opened in 1916 during WWI as a Royal Naval Air Station. Later on, during WWII, both Pa and his twin brother Fred were stationed there at various times. Such family ties of place and history can be stronger than steel and concrete to an impressionable boy.
The news these days is just too sad and too bad to dwell on. Instead, perhaps you will find some refreshment in contemplating the beauty of Stourhead, one of England's loveliest old stately homes, and its exquisite gardens. Just put all your worries and troubles on pause, and savor the peaceful harmony of the place:
Or if you need a chuckle, perhaps you will find one in this short clip of a daft old gardener playing tour guide:
I wonder if my truckbuddy Tim can tell us what sort of accent the old man has? Seems rather West Country to me with all those pirate noises, but I'm no expert.
Last July, Parliament passed a law authorizing same-sex couples to wed in England and Wales. The first weddings occurred just after midnight last night.
In a special column written for Pink News, Conservative Prime Minister David Cameron said:
The introduction of same-sex civil marriage says something about the sort of country we are. It says we are a country that will continue to honour its proud traditions of respect, tolerance and equal worth. It also sends a powerful message to young people growing up who are uncertain about their sexuality. It clearly says ‘you are equal’ whether straight or gay. That is so important in trying to create an environment where people are no longer bullied because of their sexuality – and where they can realise their potential, whether as a great mathematician like Alan Turing, a star of stage and screen like Sir Ian McKellen or a wonderful journalist and presenter like Clare Balding. . . .
Together we should be proud to live in a country judged to be the best place to live in Europe if you are lesbian, gay, bisexual or trans. But we should equally be far from complacent about the challenges that remain – and I am just as committed as ever to working with you to challenge attitudes and stamp-out homophobic bullying and hate crimes.
We are a nation that is growing stronger economically because of our long term economic plan. But I hope we can also be a country that is growing stronger socially because we value love and commitment equally. Let us raise a toast to that – and all those getting married this weekend.
A guest post from my English truckbuddy Tim, now residing in sunny Spain:
Continuing with our occasional series on Universal Truths, this week it’s “There’s nothing new under the Sun.” Usually we pick a UT and try to fit some stories around it. This time, however, the stories came first and the UT followed.
With the 2012 Olympics in London soon to begin, it will not be long before the reports of ‘payments’ and ‘appearance fees’ for our financially astute athletes begin to make the rounds. If such matters worry you, relax, they’ve all happened before, and can be found in the writings of the underrated Victorian writer, Richard Jefferies (1848-87), who wrote with great affection about life and nature in the English countryside. He wrote for The Times, The Standard and numerous other London periodicals. Your Head Trucker and I much admire his work.
Re-reading some of Jefferies’ essays, I came to realise that, almost 130 years ago, examples of Sportsmen seeking fame, and a fortune, were as much of interest then as they are now; showing indeed that there is nothing new under the Sun. There is also a lovely symmetry about the 2 tales; all have an Anglo-American slant, beloved by Russ, and some interesting cross-connections.
In his essay, ‘The Strength of the English’, written around 1884, Jefferies writes an almost homoerotic salute to the English male physique. Talking about the development of the arms and shoulder he mentions a Captain Webb:
Our arms easily acquire that peculiarity (a well developed bicep) but I do not think it is so common among us as the development of the shoulder, the arm just below it, the muscles at the back, and the remarkable width of the lower arm. The three first are singularly prominent in the arm of Captain Webb, the arm that swam the Channel: His arm about the shoulder is of immense size. These are the muscles that push, swim and strike.
Later on he mentions one Captain Barclay:
The record of athletic sports contain instances beyond number of the extraordinary strength and staying power attained by those, who possessing great natural abilities, improved them by cultivation. Say from the days of Captain Barclay only to the present, what a wonderful history might be compiled of strength and endurance.
Who, I wondered, were these two Captains?
Well, the muscly Captain Webb first.
Handsome, I think, Mathew Webb (1848-83) was originally a ship’s master with the Cunard Line. However, after attempting to save the life of a passenger lost overboard, and enjoying the resulting press attention; he began to enter professional swimming competitions. In 1875 he became the first man to swim the 21 miles of the English Channel (actually he swam 39 miles in total due to a zig-zag course through the strong currents!), completing the crossing in just under 22 hours. He swam breastroke all the way, and his record remained unbeaten for 35 years.
He became an overnight international sports celebrity, receiving funding and income from a testimonial fund set up by the London Stock Exchange. He licensed his name to a string of merchandising products; commemorative porcelain, tea towels, and most famously, Bryant & May matches. He wrote the obligatory book, The Art of Swimming, and continued to earn large sums of money from exhibition swimming matches and stunts, both in England and abroad. He earned large sums of money for taking in part in races in the United States including the 'World Championship Race' at Nantasket Beach in 1880, where he easily beat the US champion, Paul Boyton. Strangely, he also won $2,000 at the Boston Horticultural Show for floating in a tank of water for 128 hours!
In 1883, buoyed by his own self-confidence, and driven by concerns over reduced funds, he rashly accepted a challenge to swim across the river just below the Niagara Falls for the sum of $12,000. Within 10 minutes of entering the water, Webb was dragged under by a whirlpool. His mangled body was found 4 days later, and was buried in Oakwood Cemetery, Niagara Falls. A salutary tale for all those athletes wanting to make a final come back at the Olympics. This contemporary illustration captures his final moments!
Our final tale is that of Robert Barclay Allardice (1779-1854), the 6th Laird of Ury, but usually called Captain Barclay. He was a notable Scottish walker, and was known as ‘The Celebrated Pedestrian’. His rank, rather aptly, was in the 23rd Regiment of Foot!
Long distance walking, or Pedestrianism, was a popular spectator sport in the 18th and 19th centuries with huge crowds willing to pay entrance fees to watch walking events. It could also be extremely lucrative for its top competitors, particularly if, like Barclay, they were not adverse to a degree of gamesmanship to stack-up the odds. In 1801, he wagered a thousand guineas that he could walk 90 miles in 21 hours, but reputedly caught a cold, and lost. He then increased the stake to 2,000 guineas, and lost again. He then got odds which would pay him 5,000 guineas if he won, which he did, with an hour to spare.
His most famous feat was the walking of 1,000 miles in 1000 hours for 1000 guineas in 1809. Capt Barclay had a large sum depending upon his undertaking. The aggregate of the bets is supposed to have amounted to £100,000. If the report of the total wagers was accurate, they were equivalent to some £5 million ($US 8 million) in modern terms.
This feat caught the public imagination, and the career that followed allowed him ample opportunity for both money-making and gambling, a professional athlete in the truest sense! In addition to his undoubted stamina, he possessed great strength, and could lift a 252lb man with one hand. Today, he is considered to be the father of the modern day sport known as racewalking; he may also be considered a role model for today’s well paid track stars.
And if the name Barclay sounds familiar, yes it is. He was from the same family that founded Barclays Bank, that now infamous London money-lending financial institution, whose former CEO, American Bob Diamond, is now racewalking away from accusations of financial malpractice. Feel that connectivity! And one final American connection, Barclay was survived by his daughter, who after his death, emigrated to, yes you guessed, America.
So that concludes our tales from Richard Jefferies, which have so aptly illustrated our subject, Universal Truth. You should seek out his work; he has a passion for nature and man’s role in it. Here is his picture:
But wait, that noble brow, that penetrating stare, the full, luxuriant beard, does it remind you of someone? Well, there’s nothing new under the Sun!
A few years ago I came across the site of the Vindolanda Tablets, a huge cache of what we might call postcards written by Roman soldiers and their families who were stationed along Hadrian's Wall in the north of England. And it's an absolutely fascinating story, this astonishing find of all sorts of everyday communications between Roman citizens in the heyday of the Empire, at a remote outpost on the far frontier.
Party invite from Claudia Severa to her sister, Lepidina
And yet, as humans always manage somehow to do, they made the most of it. Here's a link to one of the most charming messages, a note from one officer's wife to her sister, saying in effect, "Do come to my birthday party, it'll be fun." These are everyday messages, not formal inscriptions or ponderous manuscripts, but scratched out with pen and ink on little thin slips of wood: nothing meant to be saved for the ages, although by great good luck, they were.
On that same site is a little crib sheet to help you decipher the Roman cursive handwriting - one of their least successful inventions, I might add - and I have to tell you, fellas, it was a real hair-on-end moment when, poring over the letter with the help of the crib and my long-ago high-school Latin, I suddenly realized I was able to actually read it - and in that moment, the veil of antiquity fell away and it seemed the lady herself was right in the room with me, no distance between us. Sperabo te soror: "I'll be looking for you, sis."
If your Latin is even rustier than mine and you can't make heads or tails of the letters, here's a very cool BBC video that gives you the whole picture of where and why the wall was built, and who lived there and how they lived - which was pretty comfortably for the times, with running water, central heating, designer shoes, and everything. Enjoy.
A charming little behind-the-scenes story of the Queen's visit to Dorset and Wiltshire just last week. (The Queen is in the process of visiting all parts of the realm for her Diamond Jubilee - she's letting the kids cover most of the coloniesdominionsEmpire Commonwealth, which who can blame the old girl for that? She's 86, you know. Though still going strong, as you can see here.)
The charm lies in the stories of the people who come to see her, and what they have to say, which gives a different perspective from the usual media coverage by cynical city types. As I understand it, this is a very rural part of the country in the West of England - no big cities, lots of small towns, many of them quite ancient. Which makes me think of rural Texas, of course, and I can see the similarity - down-to-earth folk who work hard, get on with things, and love their country and their Queen - who to them is like Old Glory and the Constitution and maybe the Statue of Liberty all rolled up into one living, breathing symbol of the nation and all they hold dear.
Or so it seems to me. For a long while there after the whole tragedy with Diana, I wasn't sure they would keep the monarchy very long, but all seems sorted out now. See what you think.
Bonus: A bit more on Allen Parton, the disabled vet, and his Hounds for Heroes program. So amazing, what a wonderful story.
I wonder if any of my truckbuddies remember the tune of the same title: it was a well-known piece that I learned to play as a kid while taking piano lessons (which, alas, I didn't continue very long).
I was reminded of both tune and title by the serendipitous discovery on YouTube of some BBC programs done in the late 1980's which are really delightful. I don't think they were ever shown over here, but if you like to cook and garden, check these out, I think you'll enjoy them.
Your Head Trucker's tastes in architecture tend heavily towards the classical and traditional; the Georgian period is my especial favorite, though as a Southerner I naturally have a weakness for Greek Revival; yet sometimes when I'm feeling my oats, throwing caution to the winds, I might even have a fling with Art Deco. I guess we all have a little tryst now and then, eh?
When I have nothing better to do, I sometimes amuse myself in looking over advertisements for real estate I can never hope to possess, but which is delightful to daydream about. In what may become a new regular feature here on the Blue Truck, here's a lovely old house in a stunningly beautiful location that perhaps my truckbuddies will appreciate as much as I do: Town Head House, on Lake Windermere in the Lake District of England, which famously inspired much of William Wordsworth's youthful poetry, among others.
The house has been in the family since George III was on the throne, but now they are selling out for a mere £5,250,000, or about $8.2 million at current exchange rates.
You can see more pictures and the full property description at the real estate listing site. And the Telegraph has this article on the current family, their history, and their reasons for selling.
A pause that refreshes the soul: the lovely gardens and lake at the Stourhead estate in the county of Wiltshire, England. View it in full screen for the best effect.
Early films are wonderful to watch because they happily correct the erroneous impression we all get from looking at old black-and-white photographs in books: our great-grandparents looked rather solemn when they put on their formal faces for the still cameras, for dignity's sake - "say cheese" didn't really become the norm until after World War I.
But as these clips by Edison and others show so vividly, our collective ancestors were not carved out of stone, but just as human as we are. Young women were just as silly and giggly then as now, and young men just as silly and show-offish as today. Human nature does not change. And this ought to correct another wrong idea: just because you are loaded down with every technological gadget you can afford, and think nothing of jetting across the continent or around the world whenever the whim strikes you, does not mean you are one whit different from, or intrinsically better than, your ancestors. Quite the opposite.
You are still just a human being, as they were. Think about it.
According to the Daily Telegraph, 67-year-old Pauline Howe may be facing hate crime charges for writing a single letter to her city council, protesting against the city's first gay pride march:
"I've never been in any kind of trouble before so I was stunned to have two police officers knocking at my door," she said. "Their presence in my home made me feel threatened. It was a very unpleasant experience."
Christian campaigners condemned the police action as "alarming" and warned that freedom of expression was under threat, while the homosexual equality group Stonewall said the officers' visit had been "disproportionate".
The pensioner had written to Norwich [England] council complaining about its decision to allow the march in the city centre in July, at which she claims she was verbally abused. In the letter, she wrote: "It is shameful that this small, but vociferous lobby should be allowed such a display unwarranted by the minimal number of homosexuals." Mrs Howe referred to homosexuals as "sodomites" and blamed "their perverted sexual practice" for sexually transmitting diseases as well as the "downfall of every Empire".
She argues that she is not homophobic, but was expressing her deeply held religious beliefs. However, Bridget Buttinger, deputy chief executive at the council, replied to Mrs Howe in September, warning that she could face being charged with a criminal offence for expressing such views. "As a local authority we have a duty along with other public bodies to eliminate discrimination of all kinds," she wrote.
"A hate incident is any incident that is perceived by the victim or any other person as being motivated by prejudice or hatred. A hate crime is any hate incident that constitutes a criminal offence. The content of your letter has been assessed as potentially being hate related because of the views you expressed towards people of a certain sexual orientation." She added: "Your details and details of the content of your letter have been recorded as such and passed to the Police."
What I say: This is bullshit, it makes me want to throw up. Grandma getting it off her chest in a letter - probably written in a pretty, cursive hand with pen and ink - is nota fucking hate crime.
Remember guys, it's just one short step from being oppressed to being an oppressor. While we fight for our rights and freedoms, we must also tolerate other people's right to speak their minds, even if we totally disagree with what they say: that's the American way.
As long as the other guy is free to say what he thinks, you are too. That's very, very important. Because nobody is above criticism - man, woman, black, white, straight, or gay.
I'm with Grandma on this one, guys, bless her little tea-sipping heart - how about you?
Update: In case anyone is still confused, this is a hate crime:
A gay man is fighting for his life today following a vicious gang beating in Liverpool city centre.
The 22-year–old, who the ECHO understands is a trainee constable with Merseyside police and has been named as James Parkes, was attacked by up to 13 people at 10pm last night when out with three friends on Stanley Street.
He is currently in hospital with multiple skull fractures, a fractured eye socket and a fractured cheek bone.
Honk to Chris Turner over at DH Blog for making note of Sir Adrian Fulford's speech at the recent opening of the Pink Law Legal Advice Center in London.
According to PinkNews, "Mr Justice Fulford's appointment as a High Court judge in 2002 was the first time that an openly homosexual QC had been appointed to the court. Mr Justice Fulford, known outside court as Sir Adrian, was subsequently elected at the United Nations in 2003 to serve as a judge on the International Criminal Court."
Here's an excerpt of the speech:
To be out as a practitioner in the year 1978, which is the year I was called, was something of a rollercoaster of a ride. Some of my colleagues were fantastic, others were simply gross in their rudeness and prejudices.
People lost jobs, families were destroyed, lives were broken by the large number of prosecutions of men for such absurdities as allegedly chatting up other men in places such as Old Brompton Rd, thereby 'persistently importuning for an immoral purpose.'
It sounds quite ludicrous to think of those court cases now. Policemen in supposedly provocative tight t-shirts and jeans, acting effectively as agent-provocateurs along that stretch of road between the Colherne pub and the Brompton cemetery in Earls Court.
And that was something that was repeated in every town and city, the length and breadth of the country. What a waste of time and money. What warped morality and how unbelievably destructive it was.
The workplace could be an equal nightmare for the LGBT community. Men and women losing their jobs and facing real discrimination because of their private life. And as for adopting children, you were practically branded a paedophile for even suggesting the idea. And few lawyers were prepared to assist in any attempt to redress those sorts of discriminatory practice.
And inheritance arrangements, what actually happened in respect to the true legal position, when one partner died in a relationship, could be dire. So many men and women suddenly found themselves homeless and without anything, when the relatives of the person who had been ostracised by his or her family for years suddenly descended out of thin air, having not been seen for years, on the day they departed to take every last stick of furniture. No 'civil partnerships' back then and the law did not smile sympathetically on claims that were akin to spouses or wives.
Now why am I visiting the past? It's not just the autumnal reminiscences of an aging judge. But rather, I seek to highlight that we have suddenly travelled a long way in a very short period of time. To use the language of 'Star-Trek', it's as if the warp-drive has suddenly been attached to LGBT rights.
In truth, I cannot conceive that we will in the predictable future return to the ghastliness of thirty-plus years ago. But that said, when you scratch the surface, particularly in times of difficulty when people feel threatened, prejudice, misunderstanding, fear and conservatism with a small 'c' can be found on occasion lurking surprisingly close to the surface.
While we have every reason to be confident about the future, we should also strive to ensure that we do not become blasé about the present. We should not take these fundamental advances for granted. And the more deeply rooted the projects like this become, providing an invaluable service and benefit to both the legal advisers and to clients alike, the more certain we can be that Pink Law will not be an anomaly but rather the shape of things to come.
Lord, make me an instrument of your peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is discord, harmony; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; where there is sadness, joy. Grant that I may seek not so much to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love. For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen.
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We cannot all do great things, but we can do small things with great love.
and welcome to the Blue Truck, a blog for mature gay men with news and views on gay rights, history, art, humor, and whatever comes to mind. Plus a few hot men. The truck's all washed and gassed up, so hop in buddy, let's go.
CAUTION: For mature gay men only beyond this point. Some posts and links may not be suitable for children or the unco guid. You have been warned.
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My Story
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Churches say that the expression of love in a heterosexual monogamous relationship includes the physical, the touching, embracing, kissing, the genital act - the totality of our love makes each of us grow to become increasingly godlike and compassionate. If this is so for the heterosexual, what earthly reason have we to say that it is not the case with the homosexual?
It is a perversion if you say to me that a person chooses to be homosexual. You must be crazy to choose a way of life that exposes you to a kind of hatred. It's like saying you choose to be black in a race-infected society.
If God, as they say, is homophobic, I wouldn't worship that God.
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