Thursday, November 11, 2010

Armistice Day 2010


Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae MD. [1872 -1918].



Lt Col McCrae, a Canadian doctor, sat down and wrote his famous poem shortly after the death of one of his closest friends, Lt Alex Helmer at Ypres on 3rd May 1915. Dr McCrae had tried in vain to save him, but his wounds proved fatal. “In Flanders Fields” became one of the most famous First World War poems, somehow encapsulating the tragic, sad, pointlessness of it all.

The sadness was compounded when Dr McCrae who had saved hundreds of  lives, tragically lost his own life to pneumonia in January 1918, just months before the end of the war. He was buried with full military honours in Wimereux Cemetary a couple of kilometres outside Boulogne.  His was a great and noble soul.

During the five years I lived in Belgium, I’d sometimes drive to Ypres after a bad day in the office to watch the daily six o’clock memorial ceremony at the Menin Gate [Meenenporte].  It never failed to put things in perspective.........

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place, and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields

Take up our quarrel with the foe
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch: be yours to hold it high
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields

Monday, September 27, 2010

Historic Meeting in Pyongyang

The experts, spooks, bloggers and journalists have all expressed their opinions about what will be happening at the conference of the Korean  Workers Party [WPK] which opens tomorrow in secretive Pyongyang. The truth is, nobody knows for sure; everybody is guessing. There have been only two previous conferences of the  WPK since North Korea was founded by Kim Il Sung [shown below with his young son Kim Jong Il in this family portrait] at the end of the Second World War and they were convened in 1958 and 1966.

Most of the experts speculate that tomorrow will see Kim Jong Un installed as his sickly father's successor.  While this may happen, my belief is that the main result of this meeting will be economic. I'm betting this is the Deng Xiaoping moment, marking an historic shift to open up North Korea and its economy.

All North Korean Kremlinologists will have their antennae primed for the next forty eight hours. Hopefully, we'll know by the weekend who Kim Jong Un is and what he looks like. He may look strong, but twenty seven is awfully young for a leader in a closed confucian society like North Korea.

China, Japan and the USA must be concerned about future stability on the peninsula if such a young man is pushed forward as the next leader should Kim Jong Il suddenly die in the near future and I suspect this is one of the main reasons China is probably promoting a Dengist opening to the North Korean leadership.

Ironically,  the CIA will also be trying to find the best "Get Well Soon" card for Barack and Hillary to send Kim Jong Il. The last thing the Obama Administration needs is an attack on Uijongbu by hard line militarists
For North Korea watchers this a very exciting week.

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

A Sad Anniversary

I just didn't feel right this morning. My kibun was bent all out of shape and I couldn't figure out why. Then I saw the date and realised today would have been my brother David's 70th Birthday. He died on 8th January 1984 in Seoul, Korea aged just 43. The Koreans cremated his body the next morning and David's Death Certificate just read: Cause of Death: "Illness"

By the time the police knocked on my parents' door, poor David was already ashes. I was in Tokyo on business in 1987 and decided to go incognito to Korea and see if I could find out anything more about David's end.  I presented my passport at the immigration window at Kimpo Airport in Seoul and watched with increasing concern as the Immigration Officer firstly scrutiniised me again after looking at a list on her computer and then pressed a buzzer that must have rung somewhere in a security office. I was arrested and held incommunicado overnight in  an airport cell before being deported on a flight to Hong Kong early the next morning.

We never were able to establish how David died. A burst ulcer was the closest we got.  David Nicholas Elliott Squires would have turned seventy today.  I would swap everything I've ever done to be able to buy him a drink today. God Bless you, David, wherever you are today.

Friday, June 25, 2010

G20 And The Countdown to Global Disaster

As the world leaders gather in Toronto this weekend for the G20 the prospect of global economic meltdown is an extra participant none of them wants to discuss openly. The main reason this unwelcome guest has shown up again is that the United States of America Government together with  Chuck and Chardonnay Consumer cannot face the reality of their need to cut back spending and start again living within their means.

Rather than face reality,  the Americans prefer to keep borrowing from emerging nations in Asia so that Chuck and Chardonnay can continue buying imports. Americans will thus continue to spend more than they produce. This is La La land and will lead eventually to a global disaster with unforeseable consequences.

The Europeans meanwhile led by the gloomy Germans with France and the UK in tow and prompted by the Greek mess have decided to face up to the problem and get  spending back in balance by government cutbacks and increased indirect taxation. This will result in low or no growth in Europe.

The US Govt is not happy about this because, firstly it will lead to less consumer spending in Europe which could spark another economic crisis and secondly it complicates the US Govt plans.

These are all symptoms of the decline of the USA and Europe and the rise of the East plus Brics which is irreversible. The world will be lucky to get through this change without a major war.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

Will the real Nick Clegg please stand up......

There is something about Nick Clegg that I'm not sure I like. I am more or less certain he has Lib Dem interests at heart, but sometimes it crosses your mind that it might just be Nick Clegg's interests which come first.
He has taken to the role of  Deputy Prime Minister like a duck to water. But he shouldn't lose sight of the fact that the 2010 election results hardly point to his being a wildly successful leader. We lost five seats, down from 62 to 57. Our share of the vote was 23% up just one percent from 22% in the 2005 Election. In that 2005 election when Kennedy was the leader, Lib Dem seats rose from 52 to 62 and our share of the vote rose from 18.2% to 22%
Charlie Kennedy may have had his flaws with the ciggies, booze et al. but he was a warm, transparent human guy. Nick seems to be covered with a clear plastic coating like a new piece of furniture.  I find myself often wondering what he really thinks, but there will be no open mike in Nick's new ministerial car....he is too clever by half a coalition for that.

The Long March Part #3

I reached the eastern end of the North Norfolk Coastal Path at Cromer on New Years Eve 2009 and decided to have a month's break in January before setting off down the Weavers Way to Great Yarmouth. By the end of January it was snowing regularly in the north east corner of Norfolk and I didn't fancy driving 85 miles from Cambridge just to get stuck in snow on the way home, which had already happened to me driving back from Holt over Christmas.

Then, in the middle of February I wrenched my knee badly getting out of Vic the Veteran Volvo and Dr Bones forbade me from hiking anywhere for six weeks. Before you knew it Cherry Blossom and May arrived and I hadn't walked further than a corkscrew for four months. A quick glance at my burgeoning girth confirmed this in spades. Mix your own metaphores, please

So it was only a couple of weeks ago that I parked up on the front at Cromer and dodging the early Sunday trippers trudged off stiffly up the hill  away from Cromer at the beginning of the 56 mile long Weavers Way.

Barely a mile inland, I came across a large, grey, rather sinister looking Gothic style  manor house set back from the road across a paddock. Turns out to be Cromer Hall, now home to the Cabbell Manners family and with some fascinating stories to tell.

Evelyn Baring, founder of the banking family, who later became the first Earl of Cromer was born at the Hall in 1841. Incidentally it was his third son who married a daughter of the Greys of Falloden and became Lord Howick of Howick Hall near Craster.

The best connection is, however, literary. In 1901 Arthur Conan Doyle returned from South Africa suffering from enteric fever and to recuperate he decided to take a golfing holiday in North Norfolk. He was accompanied by his friend the journalist Bertram Fletcher Robinson and stayed at the now demolished Royal Links Hotel in Cromer.



During their visit to Cromer, Conan Doyle and Betram Fletcher Robinson had dinner with Benjamin Bond Cabbell at Cromer Hall. During dinner Cabbell told them about his ancestor, Richard Cabbell - Lord of Brook Manor and Buckfastleigh - who had been killed by a devilish dog. The story went that Richard Cabbell's wife had been unfaithful and that, after beating her, she had fled out onto Dartmoor. Cabbell pursued her and stabbed her - but while committing the murder his wife's faithful dog attacked him and tore out his throat. The ghost of the dog was said to haunt Dartmoor and to reappear to each generation of the Cabbell family. Richard Cabbell became the model for the evil Hugo Baskerville in Conan Doyle's classic tale.

There is also another fascinating connection - the coachman who drove Conan Doyle to Cromer Hall was  called Baskerville. Conan Doyle often drew his character's names from real life.


Conan Doyle was made aware too of the Norfolk legend of Black Shuck - the terrible Hound which terrorised parts of the county. The legend went that anyone looking into the eyes of the hound only had a year to live. Black Shuck is said to haunt Beeston Bump - which is not far from Cromer. Black Shuck is also said to have appeared to the townsfolk of Bungay in 1577 inside St. Mary's Church. The dog is commemorated in the town sign and in a weather vane on top of the market place. Conan Doyle's description of Baskerville Hall bears an uncanny likeness to Cromer Hall:
'The avenue opened into a broad expanse of turf, and the house lay before us. In the fading light I could see that the centre was a heavy block of building from which a porch projected. The whole front was draped in ivy, with a patch clipped bare here and there where a window or a coat-of-arms broke through the dark veil. From this central block rose the twin towers, ancient, crenellated, and pierced with many loopholes. To right and left of the turrets were more modern wings of black granite. A dull light shone through heavy mullioned windows, and from the high chimneys which rose from the steep, high-angled roof there sprang a single black column of smoke.'

 Until the great gale of 1987, Cromer Hall had a yew alley - which plays a major part in the book.Conan Doyle's imagination brought together a number of ideas, characters and locations to create one of Sherlock Holmes' most dramatic adventures. Obviously, he moved the setting from Norfolk to Dartmoor - but the original inspiration lay in Cromer.

If the rest of the Weavers Way proves as interesting, it'll be splendid.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

A Very Important Passenger

During my working life I clocked up more than 10,000 flying hours and lived abroad for 22 years. In 1970, when I was starting out as a freshly trained Export Rep for the British Bata Shoe Corporation I was organizing a twelve nation sales tour of Africa with our Travel Manager, Armin Fassbinder. In 1970 Armin was a stylish, sixtyish Czech exile who had seen more than his fair share of wars, upheavals and death.

I was very excited about my first ever export trip. When I went to collect my plane ticket from Armin he gave me the travel advice I have never forgotten.

"Just remember young Squires," Armin advised me, "When you are travelling overseas, think of your self as a parcel, that way you will never be disappointed!"

Somehow, I never forgot that advice. It came surging back when I watched the British "ash" refugees moaning about their predicament. How important were their troubles: how interesting were their stories: Not much!

Here's the score. Settle your hotel bill. Pay your fare. Go home

Thanks Armin.

Sunday, March 7, 2010

Are They By Any Chance Related?

HE Kim Jong Il meets the troops



HRH Princess Anne meets the troops

Friday, February 26, 2010

Cross about the Crossing


"What's a crossing, Dad?"

"Is it a bridge? Is it a tunnel?"
 
"No, son its a crossing"
 
What's the Dartford Crossing, Dad?"
 
"It is a mess son, its a great big mess!"


During the 1970's a clever, far-sighted man called Cyril Engineer working in Thurrock for the Department Of Transport [now cunningly renamed the Department For Transport] came up with the wonderful idea that it would be much quicker to visit his sister in Slough on Sundays if there was a motorway running around London instead of the family always having to battle through London traffic.

So, Cyril and his mates drew up plans to build a super, new, five lane circular motorway all the way round London. It would solve traffic problems throughout the south east of England at a stroke.

"Great Idea!"  said the quick witted Transport Minister with an eye on promotion, "but there will never be enough traffic to justify five lanes. You can build it, but with three lanes only"

" By the way, Minister, what name shall we give this new road?

" Why not.... M25, that's pretty meaningless," suggested Mr Manyhomes M.P. helpfully

Thus the splendid highway was born that would speed one and all on their way to grandma, the shops, the airport, the ferry, the theatre.....well, to everywhere.  It was such a good idea, people with all types of vehicles flocked to it. 100,000, 150,000, 200,000 vehicles a day drove on to it. Pretty soon "M25" was becoming a synonym for congestion

Before long Cyril Engineer's new motorway was so popular it was clear each carriageway should be at least four lanes wide.

Unfortunately, about this time, some rail-commuting genius in the Department Of/For/By/With Transport arrived at the bizarre conclusion that driving had become so popular the nation should stop building new motorways

That way, he reasoned, the Treasury could keep countless billions of road and fuel taxes to spend on unworkable computer dreams, five star immigrant hostels with clean moats, luxury accommodations for ducks and first class rail tickets for poor, dear, sensitive, parliamentarians to finish off their sudoku puzzles in peace. It would also greatly advance Jeremy Jobsworth's chances of a gong.

The great and the good huddled in secret enclave at the Department For/Of/By/With/Without Transport and decided in future to widen only five miles of the M25 at a time, so not to upset emotionally vulnerable tree dwellers. The whole project would probably take a hundred years. The Treasury would be thrilled.

Meanwhile, Mr and Mrs Average Motorist-Taxpayer were considerately donating billions more to the national coffers. They even forked out another £200,000,000 to build a smashing new four lane bridge over the Thames at Dartford. It was another brilliant idea from Mr Cyril Engineer who was, by now, nearing retirement.

Four lanes of traffic would now move easily southbound over the bridge and four lanes of traffic could also move smoothly north anti-clockwise through the old Dartford tunnel.

This would remove the last M25 bottleneck; the tunnel under the Thames at Dartford. Visiting loved ones would forever be a trouble free trip. A better quality of life for all of us!

Not so fast, Batman!  The Mandarins at the Department For Transport were plotting revenge.

Firstly, the newly knighted Sir Jeremy Jobsworth immmediately proceeded to build a mighty road block at the southern end of the bridge and tunnel in the form of  "temporary" toll gates. Perhaps, he might soon be ennobled as Lord Jobsworth of Erith in the County of Jams.

"The toll is just temporary until the bridge is paid for." added Sir Jeremy without even blinking once.


Nextly, he craftily arranged for two of Europe's biggest retail parks, Bluewater and Lakeside to be opened conveniently at either end of the crossing.
 
Then, he cleverly organized the new M20 from the Channel Tunnel to intersect with the M25 just three miles south of the tunnel, disgorging thousands of huge trucks right in front of the measly thirteen northbound toll booths.

 
Then he topped off this grand design by allowing some nice property developer chappies to build a vast complex of empty warehouses and office blocks right up to the roadside by the toll booths, so that there would only ever be space for fourteen southbound and thirteen northbound toll booths.
 

A new bureaucracy would be required to collect all the "temporary" toll money. The Thurrock Toll Bridge....but what about the tunnel?  The Dartford Toll Tunnel....but what about the bridge?
So the "The Dartford Crossing" was created.  How clever!

 If there was no toll, we could just have a tunnel and a bridge and the "Dartford Crossing" could be despatched to Alice in Wonderland where it belongs.
 
So, after thirty five years, what has the collective genius of Sir Jeremy Jobsworth and Mr Minister Manyhomes delivered to the long suffering public?

After spending many billions of taxpayers money constructing and widening the M25 motorway, building bridges, refurbishing tunnels to speed up traffic flow and make life better in southern England, what is the success story to be told?

A better motorway network? A more productive economy and infrastructure? A better quality of travel for motorists?

Not a chance! Europe's biggest permanent traffic jam is what they have created, and it costs billions more in delays than will ever collected at the tolls.

The Dartford Crossing Toll is the quintessential monument to the blinkered stupidity, short-sighted remoteness of senior
 civil servants and their political masters cloistered in first class comfort in Westminster.

In a final mafia-like insult to the long suffering British motorist, the Government recently announced it would sell the Dartford Crossing to a private operator meaning the "temporary toll" will now become permanent and the Treasury can cream off their take for ever more.

Meanwhile, the plain fact staring civil servants in the face is that the simple removal of the Dartford Crossing Toll would immediately boost the nation's productivity and instantly improve the quality of life of  millions of citizens.
 
Last Friday afternoon heading home after visiting a customer in Sussex, I queued as usual for six miles at a snail's pace to reach the toll at the tunnel entrance of the Dartford Crossing  and once through, counted eight miles of queues on the opposite carriageway crawling southbound to reach the bridge toll of the Dartford Crossing.............
 
..............."and that, son, is what makes me cross about the Crossing. Very fucking cross indeed!"


Wednesday, January 20, 2010

Bill McLaren, 1923 - 2010: Rugby Lion

Bill McLaren who died on Tuesday, aged 86, was the BBC voice of Rugby for fifty years. For those of us born just after the war, Bill, like other BBC great sports commentators, Peter O'Sullevan of horse racing, John Arlott of cricket and boxing's Harry Carpenter, was a part of our lives.
In our house, first through the radio in the late fifties and then on TV from the sixties onwards, a five [now six] nations Saturday afternoon was a special winter event.  The curtains would be closed fifteen minutes before kick off, my brother David and I would settle down with Dad to watch the game and listen to Bill McLaren's rich Scottish Border burr describe the action as only he could. His great secret was, although meticulously prepared and completely professional, he seemed so relaxed and anecdotal he could have been sitting in your living room watching the game with you. He also had that magical turn of phrase that could only come from a deep knowledge and love of rugby. It was his great natural talent to find the phrase you wished you had thought of.

He never ctiticized a ref, resisted big money offers from other broadcasters,staying loyal to the BBC all his working life. He never pontificated on tactics like some of today's big commentating names who could learn more than a thing or two from Bill. He loved his family, his rugby, his golf and the Scottish Borders....what more needs to be said!
There will be no dancing in the streets of Hawick this week, but many a smile will cross folks' faces in memory of the fair and proud Scot with a life so well lived. We were lucky to share it a little. Here a few of Bill's great quotes,

On David Duckham: "He could sidestep three men in a telephone box"

On Jonah Lomu: " I'm no hod carrier, but I'd be laying bricks if he was running at me"

On Scott Quinnell:  "There goes 18 stones of prime Welsh beef on the hoof."

On  the All Blacks:  "They look like great prophets of doom today"

On Simon Geoghahan: "He's all arms and legs like some mad rampaging octopus"

On Scott Gibbs: " When he hits you, you think the roof just fell in"

and finally my favourite..........

" He's a slippery as a baggie up a Borders burn"

No more trout will slip by you now, Bill McLaren. Rest in Peace. I will raise a glass to you tonight.

Sunday, January 17, 2010

Clarkson's Frustration Censored

Below is a copy of Jeremy Clarkson's recent column for the Sunday Times which was pulled after feet went suddenly cold at the prospect of several influential political personages throwing a tantrum or two. It might also be considered moderately insulting to a broad range of countries, but what would anyone expect from an article by Senor Clarkson? 
Jeremy Clarkson who writes a regular and often tellingly funny column in the Sunday Times also hosts Top Gear a popular BBC motoring programme in the UK. This article reflects the thoughts of many British citizens in one way or another   

“Get me a rope before Mandelson wipes us all out”




Jeremy Clarkson for the Sunday Times

I've given the matter a great deal of thought all week, and I'm afraid I've decided that it's no good putting Peter Mandelson in a prison. I'm afraid he will have to be tied to the front of a van and driven round the country until he isn't alive any more.
He announced last week that middle-class children will simply not be allowed into the country's top universities even if they have 4,000 A-levels, because all the places will be taken by Albanians and guillemots and whatever other stupid bandwagon the conniving idiot has leapt on.


I hate Peter Mandelson. I hate his fondness for extremely pale blue jeans and I hate that preposterous moustache he used to sport in the days when he didn't bother trying to cover up his left-wing fanaticism. I hate the way he quite literally lords it over us even though he's resigned in disgrace twice, and now holds an important decision-making job for which he was not elected. Mostly, though, I hate him because his one-man war on the bright and the witty and the successful means that half my friends now seem to be taking leave of their senses.

There's talk of emigration in the air. It's everywhere I go. Parties. Work. In the supermarket. My daughter is working herself half to death to get good grades at GSCE and can't see the point because she won't be going to university, because she doesn't have a beak or flippers or a qualification in washing windscreens at the lights. She wonders, often, why we don't live in America.

Then you have the chaps and chapesses who can't stand the constant raids on their wallets and their privacy. They can't understand why they are taxed at 50% on their income and then taxed again for driving into the nation's capital. They can't understand what happened to the hunt for the weapons of mass destruction. They can't understand anything. They see the Highway Wombles in those brand new 4x4s that they paid for, and they see the M4 bus lane and they see the speed cameras and the Community Support Officers and they see the Albanians stealing their wheelbarrows and nothing can be done because it's racist.

And they see Alistair Darling handing over £4,350 of their money to not sort out the banking crisis that he doesn't understand because he's a small-town solicitor, and they see the stupid war on drugs and the war on drink and the war on smoking and the war on hunting and the war on fun and the war on scientists and the obsession with the climate and the price of train fares soaring past £1,000 and the Guardian power-brokers getting uppity about one shot baboon and not uppity at all about all the dead soldiers in Afghanistan, and how they got rid of Blair only to find the lying twerp is now going to come back even more powerful than ever, and they think, "I've had enough of this. I'm off."

It's a lovely idea, to get out of this stupid, Fairtrade, Brown-stained, Mandelson-skewed, equal-opportunities, multicultural, carbon-neutral, trendily left, regionally assembled, big-government, trilingual, mosque-drenched, all-the-pigs-are-equal, property-is-theft hellhole and set up shop somewhere else. But where?
You can't go to France because you need to complete 17 forms in triplicate every time you want to build a greenhouse, and you can't go to Switzerland because you will be reported to your neighbours by the police and subsequently shot in the head if you don't sweep your lawn properly, and you can't go to Italy because you'll soon tire of waking up in the morning to find a horse's head in your bed because you forgot to give a man called Don a bundle of used notes for "organising" a plumber.

You can't go to Australia because it's full of things that will eat you, you can't go to New Zealand because they don't accept anyone who is more than 40 and you can't go to Monte Carlo because they don't accept anyone who has less than 40 mill. And you can't go to Spain because you're not called Del and you weren't involved in the Walthamstow blag. And you can't go to Germany ... because you just can't.
The Caribbean sounds tempting, but there is no work, which means that one day, whether you like it or not, you'll end up like all the other expats, with a nose like a burst beetroot, wondering if it's okay to have a small sharpener at 10 in the morning. And, as I keep explaining to my daughter, we can't go to America because if you catch a cold over there, the health system is designed in such a way that you end up without a house. Or dead.

Canada's full of people pretending to be French, South Africa's too risky, Russia's worse and everywhere else is too full of snow, too full of flies or too full of people who want to cut your head off on the internet. So you can dream all you like about upping sticks and moving to a country that doesn't help itself to half of everything you earn and then spend the money it gets on bus lanes and advertisements about the dangers of salt. But wherever you go you'll wind up an alcoholic or dead or bored or in a cellar, in an orange jumpsuit, gently wetting yourself on the web. All of these things are worse than being persecuted for eating a sandwich at the wheel.

I see no reason to be miserable. Yes, Britain now is worse than it's been for decades, but the lunatics who've made it so ghastly are on their way out. Soon, they will be back in Hackney with their South African nuclear-free peace polenta. And instead the show will be run by a bloke whose dad has a wallpaper shop and possibly, terrifyingly, a twerp in Belgium whose fruitless game of hunt-the-WMD has netted him £15m on the lecture circuit.

So actually I do see a reason to be miserable. Which is why I think it's a good idea to tie Peter Mandelson to a van. Such an act would be cruel and barbaric and inhuman. But it would at least cheer everyone up a bit in the meantime.

Sunday, January 10, 2010

Blog Isn't The Only New Word

At the moment technology is responsible for generating lots interesting new words, adding to the richness of the English language; blog being a classic. Some people are a bit sniffy about this, but it has been going on for centuries.

There is an old hostelry near Marble Arch in London which used to have a gallows adjacent to it. Prisoners were taken to the gallows, after a fair trial of course, to be hanged. The horse drawn dray carting the prisoner was accompanied by an armed guard, who would stop the dray outside the pub and ask the prisoner if he would like one last drink. If he said yes, it was referred to as one for the road; if he declined, that prisoner was said to be on the wagon. So there you go.
More history.
Urine was used to tan animal skins, so families used to all pee in a pot and then once a day it was taken and sold to the tannery. If you had to do this to survive you were, piss poor, but even more unfortunate were the really poor folk, who couldn’t even afford to buy a pot, they didn’t have a pot to piss in and considered were the lowest of the low.
The next time you are washing your hands and complain, because the water temperature isn't just how you like it, just think about how things used to be.

Here are a few more facts about life in the sixteenth century:

Most people got married in June, because they took their yearly bath in May and they still smelled pretty good by June. However, since they were starting to smell, brides carried a bouquet of flowers, to hide body odour. Hence the custom today, of carrying a bouquet when getting married.

Baths consisted of a big tub filled with hot water. The man of the house had the privilege of the nice clean water, then all the other sons and men, then the women and finally the children. Last of all were the babies. By then the water was so dirty you could almost lose someone in it: hence the saying: don't throw the baby out with the bath water!

Houses had thatched roofs with thick straw piled high, with no wood underneath. This was the only place for animals to keep warm, so all the cats, dogs and other small animals such as mice lived in the roof. When it rained the roof became slippery and sometimes the animals would slip and fall off the roof. This was how the saying, it's raining cats and dogs came into our language

Dirt floors were the norm; only the wealthy had something other than dirt. Hence the saying, dirt poor. The wealthy had slate floors, that would get slippery in the winter when wet, so they spread thresh (straw) on floor to help keep their footing. As winter wore on, more thresh would be added, until, when you opened the door, the thresh would start spilling outside. So, a piece of wood was placed in the entrance way, hence: a threshhold became part of the English language

In those old days, they cooked in the kitchen with a big kettle, that always hung over the fire. Every day, they lit the fire and added things to the pot. They ate mostly vegetables and did not get much meat. They would eat the stew for dinner, leaving leftovers in the pot to get cold overnight, then start over the next day.

Sometimes families could obtain pork, which made them feel quite special. When visitors came over, they would hang up their bacon, to show it off. It was a sign of wealth that a man could bring home the bacon. Families would cut off a little, to share with guests and would all sit around talking and chew the fat.

Bread was divided, according to status. Workers got the burnt bottom of the loaf, the family got the middle, and guests got the top, or the upper crust.


Lead cups were commonly used to drink ale or whisky. The delightful combination of lead and alcohol would sometimes knock out imbibers for a couple of days. Pedestrians walking along the road would take these poisoned imbibers for dead and prepare them for burial. They would be laid out on the kitchen table and the family would gather around and eat and drink and wait and see if the dead one would wake up. Hence the custom of holding a wake.

Burial grounds were scarce in England people often ran out of places to bury people. So, it became common practice to dig up coffins and the bones and sell them to a bone-house then re-use the grave. When reopening these coffins, about one in twenty were found to have scratch marks on the inside and citizens realized they had been burying people alive. So, it became a custom to tie a string to the wrist of the corpse, thread it through the coffin, up through the ground and tie it to a bell.
Someone would have to sit out in the graveyard all night, the graveyard shift, to listen for the bell; thus, someone could be, saved by the bell or was considered a dead ringer
And that's the truth.

Or is it all in the bear's imagination?