Claims we hanged a monkey spy are false
ANY individual who dons a uniform and fights for his country deserves our respect.
I realised that during the “street party” to mark the 75th anniversary of Victory in Europe.
Despite the bunting, it was rather a depressing affair. In my opinion, standing so far apart that communication with fellow revellers is impossible does not constitute a party.
Hands had to be thoroughly disinfected before they grabbed a handful of nibbles.
One elderly resident poked a hole in her mask and sucked plonk through a straw.
Some individuals who don a uniform deserve more respect than others, however. Uncle Terry dressed as an oversized banana and fought for his country in a 1975 edition of Jeux Sans Frontières, the continental version of It’s A Knockout. He was beaten by a French individual dressed as an onion.
I have openly opposed Uncle Terry’s place in Remembrance Day parades and cringe when I see his garish yellow suit dominating the dignified phalanx of ex-servicemen.
In reality, he’s there to make up the numbers, along with cub scouts, Round Tablers, ramblers, dog walkers and retired teachers.
We have but two genuine veterans who celebrated VE Day, and one of those was a member of the catering corps who has the scars to prove it. The old soldier suffered a terrible laceration while peeling spuds.
He also suffered a nasty eye injury in the officers’ mess. He was struck by a champagne cork.
In the theatre of war, our village’s fathers and forefathers have been little more than extras and bit part players. And there’s a reason – as farm labourers, their services were needed on the land.
A Heinkel once haemorrhaged its payload on a slurry pit. That’s the closest the conflict came to us.
It is rumoured King Harold visited in 1066 and demanded that a handful of peasants – armed only with milking stools and hoes – join him at Hastings. They discovered that, in a contest between a Norman bowman and a man with a milking stool, the bowman prevails. Since that unpleasant experience, we’ve learned to keep our heads down.
Five farm labourers lost their lives in the Great War, one died at Waterloo (that’s the railway station, not the battle), but we came out of World War Two unscathed. Churchill decided the country would be better served if our menfolk continued to cultivate crops, dip sheep and milk cows.
Hitler, for the most part, avoided us, although a second overloaded Luftwaffe bomber did get rid of its deadly cargo on nearby fields, killing a cow and disabling a spud lorry. Claims that we hanged a monkey in 1915 believing it to be a German spy – we’d never seen a German, hence the confusion – are untrue and simply pander to those who believe country folk are stupid.
It was a parrot.
Some are born to be heroes, others are born to wave at them in parades. I am in the latter category. But the lack of combat doesn’t make VE Day and Remembrance Sunday any less moving, any less poignant for our parishioners.
In 2015, we pushed the boat out for the Battle of Britain’s 75th anniversary. We enlisted the services of a marching band.
Is This The Way To Amarillo wasn’t the most appropriate musical piece, on reflection, but the band leader said they’d given The Last Post a “trial run” and it didn’t go down well. It just met with stony silence.
“Dave, can I ring you back?” bawled a gent down his mobile phone as we gathered at the cenotaph last Remembrance Day.
“Bit of a minute’s silence going on here. I SAID, A BIT OF A MINUTE’S SILENCE GOING ON HERE. Probably going on at your end, too. Yeah, right, wicked, mate.
“Yep, yep. Very moving. You’re breaking up, mate. You’re breaking up, mate. Couple of people have ruined it by coughing, though. I SAID A COUPLE OF PEOPLE HAVE RUINED IT BY COUGHING.
“Listen, got to go, some guy from the British Legion is making a ‘ V for Victory’ sign at me.’’
As a “big exclusive”, our local paper revealed to its dwindling readers that the medals I sport on Poppy Day are not actually of military origin.
In their VE Day special, they even got some old chap with a St George’s Cross to rant that it was an affront to the bravery of every serviceman and woman in the country, past and present.
There speaks a man who has never fished a rubber brick from the bottom of a swimming baths while wearing pyjamas, or retaken his cycling proficiency three times.
This year, the pet cemetery held a service for military animals who lost their lives while serving this country. There were numerous dogs and pigeons, but, having been brought up on episodes of Skippy, surprisingly no mention of kangaroos. I feel this is a serious own-goal by the Army.
Not only can kangaroos hide a message in their pouch, they can also box the ears off the enemy. Not a single tortoise is on the roll of honour, either.
OK, you’d need a very long campaign if you wanted a tortoise to deliver a message, but, on the plus side, they’re the right weight and size to fling at rivals.