Gay's the Word

GAY’S THE WORD GAY’S THE WORD
GAY’S THE WORD
GAY’S THE WORD L.R SPICKETT
Louis Spickett
Louis Spickett Louis Spickett




. GAY’S THE WORD
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Copyright © L. R. Spickett August 2019
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.
ISBN: 9781905912636 Cover © L.R.Spickett
Also by Louis Spickett:
Maurice – A new Beginning
At Sea & at War – True Recollections of a Mariner Anything you like – or A Romp at Any Time
The Ancient Theft
Flying High – My Life as Far as it Goes
The Equitalian Ghost
The Equitalian Ghost - Second Haunt
The Equitalian Ghost - Third Haunt
The Equitalian Ghost - Further Haunts
The Equitalian Ghost – Medley & Motley
Printed and published in the United Kingdom by Blissett Bookbinders, Roslin Road, London W3 8DH
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AUTOBIOGRAPHIC BITS ENDING WITH
GAY’S THE WORD
BY
LOUIS SPICKETT
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Dedicated to John of Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada,
for suggesting I recollect and record some of my historic antics! I do not apologise for the vernacular.
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I’ve been down this route before - see FLYING HIGH etc., but gathering some of the loose bits together seemed a good idea.
I was born in Folkestone, Kent, England, on the Third of July 1924 and christened, somewhere, sometime, Louis Richard Henry Spickett. Who knows why Louis was chosen to front the beast for it is a French name. Richard and Henry, were old family names going back to my ancestors of the 15th century or earlier. There is an interesting article on the internet which gives a clue as to the origin of the name Spickett, showing also a Family Crest – at this rate I’ll usurp the incumbent royals - and I quote:-
This is a patronymic alternative spelling of the Olde French nickname surname “Espeche” which translates literally as “The Woodpecker” but factually was given to a medieval herald or spokesman – one who spoke. The surname means “The son of speak” or “little speak” and derives from the addition of the suffix “Pettit” – later shortened to “et” or “ett” or even “ot”. The name development includes Katherin Speckett who married John Tanner at St. Margarets Church, Westminster on October 13th 1656, whilst John Spickett was a witness at the christening of his son John at the Church of St. Bartholomew’s Exchange, London on February 29th 1807. The first recorded spelling of the family name is shown to be that of Adrian Speecatt, which was dated October 5th 1626, married Elizabeth Greene at St. Giles, Cripplegatge London, during the
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reign of King Charles I, (The Martyr), 1625 – 1649. Surnames became necessary when governments introduced personal taxation. In England this was known as Poll Tax. Throughout the centuries, surnames in every country
have continued to “develop” often leading to astonishing variants of the original spelling.
Copyright: www.surnamedb.com 1980
My zodiac sign is Cancer – whatever that is supposed to signify! Other significant characters born on the 3rd July 1924, to name but a few, were Jimmy Carter - the ex US President, Marlon Brando, James Baldwin, Lauren Bacall, Benny Hill, Doris Day, Charles Aznavour, etc. It was also the year that Lenin died.
My own independent research in the bowels of Canterbury Cathedral, pouring over original ancient church records (by appointment only and wearing obligatory protective linen gloves) the only authentic documents in the world which go way back, providing a long history of the Spicketts’, at least those living in the county of Kent. The further back one goes the more difficult it becomes even though the details are all clearly hand written on sheets of parchment. I got as far back as 1560 when one descendent, named Spirket, was born. He died in 1613. I didn’t have the time or patience to decipher records prior to 1560, though there are many earlier records. The trail from Spirket eventually led to my father, Frank Spickett.
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One earlier direct relative, named Thomas, ran a public house in Littlebourne, called the Anchor Inn. Remarkably, a list of owners currently displayed on the pub’s notice board, lists only Mary Spikett. Thomas lived around c1782 to 1831.
Uncle Alfred mentioned that Thomas had two sons, Thomas and Robert. When their father became widowed and re-married, the two sons disliked the situation and left home. Thomas (2nd) eventually moved to Dover and amongst many offspring begat my father, Frank.
My grandmother, Mary Spickett, bore ten or so children. Obviously for the working class condoms were a rarity. Other methods had to prevail. Victorian ethics were a big lie.
Mary hailed from a South London suburb. They were a tough crowd and conditioned to expect little out of life. This anti humanitarian ethic practiced by Victoria’s ruling classes toward the working class was abysmal and against all the tenets of their religion. It was ever thus!
Several of Mary’s family worked in Covent Garden market. Alfred recounted an event of long ago relating to my Great Grandmother. Her husband regularly visited a public house called The Dunn Cow. It still survives, a ‘protected’ historic building. On one occasion, a ‘friendly’ neighbour called to inform her that someone in the pub had stolen her husband’s tankard of beer. Without hesitation, a very incensed Mary rushed to the pub. found the culprit, lifted him bodily in the air – she must have been tough – then, outside, dumped him in a horse-trough filled with water. For the less
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enlightened, horses at that moment in history were still an important ‘engine’ of locomotion. Horse-troughs, at intervals along the streets, provided their drinking water.
The beginning is always difficult mainly because the memory grows distinctly shadier with the advent of time. I have the usual photo of me as a baby, well at least two years old, sitting in an arm-chair facing the camera, looking angelic - well not quite – with fair curly hair, and looking distinctly male. No, it was not one of those nude poses so favoured at that time. I defy anyone to remember details of themselves at such a young age.
I was the second male in the Spickett tree, Regrettably, my brother, Basil, died when very young. He is buried in Folkestone cemetery. It would have been great to have had a brother, sadly fate thought otherwise. Ahead of me by a few years were two older sisters, Megan and Eveline. Megan was born in December 1918, Eveline a couple of years later. Let’s go back a bit.
My parents, born towards the very end of the nineteenth century, were married in March 1918. My dear father was no single minded partner for he was inclined to ‘spread his wings’ and reach out towards other ladies! I firmly believe that several of his Firm’s (Gambrill & Co.) female clients offered such unfaithful liaisons! He would be considered a very active heterosexual! Mother, I am sure remained a virgin until she carried that all important wedding ring. Her immediate pregnancy would have been within that legitimate barrier so many non virtuous creatures shout about! They were a good match and that evasive element, love was certainly theirs. To me, they really were truly wonderful parents. I have a feeling that some
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us were actually planned. My parents were no strangers to contraception.
At the time, 1924 and even in my very early years, it was rare to hear matters relating to sex ever mentioned, let alone discussed, Push the clock forward ten years or so and all had changed!
We remained in Folkestone until I about five or six years old. I cannot claim to remember much of life in our terraced house in Radnor Park Road. The back garden hardly existed though it did have a wooden shack or shed. The only memory I have is its use as a makeshift cinema, where Dad projected still-life pictures on to an old linen sheet. Erotic, possibly, |I cannot say, except that only dad’s male friends gathered to watch!
Folkestone of course has its charm which I would discover later in life. There is a large Park named after its benefactor, Radnor, covering an area stretching from the Central railway station down to the local hospital, Victoria. The English Channel favoured the towns beaches. The cliff top promenade, appropriately called Leas Cliff, provides a view of long stretches of the English Channel. On the French coast opposite, a distance of some twelve or so miles, one can, on a clear day, see moving traffic.
Facilitating our ‘up and away’ from Folkestone, is to be found in a legacy by one of Dad’s clients.
Her name was Sally. She had became an invalid and my dear mother was persuaded to look after her. I have no recollection of Sally whatsoever. When she died her Will provided dad with a monetary gift. This, I believe, helped towards the purchase of Went-Ways in Lyminge.
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I was around four years old when we shuffled off to Lyminge, a village seven or eight miles from Folkestone. An ancient village, inhabited at one time by the famed Ethelburger or Ethelburgh of Kent. This patron ‘saint’ was born in the year 601. She is supposed to have established a nunnery. She was an early Christian and paid allegiance to the Pope and his scallywags in Rome. Apart from naming the church, a lonely and romantic lane also carried the title, Ethelberga. A very long time ago. Ethelberga was initially buried in her church until the long arms of the ecclesiastic ‘financiers’ realised her capital value, even in her moribund state. She was exhumed and moved to Canterbury!
Lyminge & Went-Ways. I am fortunate in that my memory is not too restrained to conjure up reminiscences of my early youth. Most, if not all, relate to my childhood whilst living in the village of Lyminge. Most of my memories, events, the people and the general environment in which we lived provide luxurious thoughts which I recall with pride. Forgive me if I repeat myself as I ramble along!
My parents were Frank Spickett (1893-1971) and Ada (née Spiller 1891-1978); they met during the first world war and were married on the 16 March 1918 at Wareham in Dorset. He was still in uniform as the first world war was not yet ended. See their wedding photo below
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Mum and Dad on their wedding day
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My father, as previously mentioned, worked in a solicitor’s office in Folkestone and in 1911 is described as Assistant to the Magistrate’s Clerk. Dad’s family did not figure significantly in my childhood, or for that matter in my life, with the exception of Uncle Alfred. History continues, nevertheless.
A bit of earlier history. My paternal Grandfather, Robert Alfred Spickett (1850-1921), son of Thomas, landlord of the Anchor Inn, Littlebourne, was a builder’s carpenter in 1911 living with his family at 12 Wingate Terrace, Canterbury Road, Folkestone. His wife, Grandmother Mary Ann Spickett (née Smith, 1865-1938) was a very capable and independent woman whose life had been pretty tough. She was born in the London Borough of Southwark, South of the Thames, in an old Victorian cottage long since demolished. Perhaps it was bombed and destroyed during World War II, or else demolished to make way for some in-artistic, concrete or glass walled abomination.
My grandmother last resided in a house on Black Bull Road, Folkestone. A very steep hill, which leads to the top of the Kentish Downs overlooking the sea. At the top one can view a broad expanse of the English Channel. Grandma, during all the time I knew her, was a widow who lived with two of her daughters, Lucy and Ethel out of her family of twelve. Lucy was born in 1894 and worked at the local municipal baths, where facilities were provided for people whose homes were without baths. Ethel born 1887, was commonly known as ‘Eck’. What a funny abbreviation! What she did for a living I have no idea, I don’t believe either of them ever married.
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When you are young, moving house can be very exciting. I was around four or five years old when we moved to Lyminge in 1930/31, and I was not to be disappointed.
Lyminge came to be our new home town or rather village, by sheer chance. It followed a visit there by mum, dad, Eveline, Megan, Margaret and me in the summer of around 1930. That trip was primarily to visit a children’s fair being held on an estate known as Sibton Park which lay at the north end of the village. How my parents came to know about the fair is a mystery. Considering my age at the time it is surprising that the outcome of that single visit still registers.
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On the day of the fair, Mum and Dad, having left us to enjoy ourselves, decided to investigate the countryside, a country walk no less. I can imagine them leisurely strolling along a very deserted road north of Sibton Park, a blue-sky with mid-afternoon sun forming a canopy and large expanses of green fields on either side. Sounds very romantic! They would in fact have walked along a road known as Brady Road.
For roughly a quarter of a mile there were but open fields on both sides which stretched far into the distance. Walking on, and to their left, they would eventually pass a lane known as Ethelburga Grove, on the corner of which stood a large detached house. I mentioned Ethelberga earlier. Opposite this isolated house were three or four workmen’s cottages. Further on, yet on the same side, were more open fields. These extended way down to the village Chapel in, appropriately, Church Road.
Continuing along Brady Road and close to the crossroads was a solitary property. It was a large isolated bungalow which stood back from the road partially hidden by trees. It carried no identifying street number, but simply named, Went Ways. It was for sale. It had apparently been unoccupied for several years. In this idyllic setting with its wonderful views, my parents fell in love with it straight away.
At the crossroads, and immediately ahead, they would encounter a very steep hill which carried the title, The Farthing. This road wound its way up to a hamlet at its very top. The Farthing, a name
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possibly originating
from a "farthingdale" of land, a medieval division


meaning the fourth part of a larger area of 40 acres.
Duncan Harrington, historian from Lyminge provided me with this and other historical information.
At the right of the crossroad, a road carrying the romantic title of Woodland Road - deriving its name from the farm at the top - led down a hill before rising and disappearing out of view. Later we would discover that it ultimately joined up with an old Roman track, now a road called Stone Street. In the opposite direction it ultimately led to the village High Street.
From the same crossroads, over a wooden stile, was a large sloping field containing a herd of cattle. The farm and its outbuildings could be seen in the distance. I would eventually meet the farm owner, a widow, Mrs Atkins, who ran it with her son. She and I became friends and I remember her more for the freshly baked cakes she produced whenever I called.
Midway up The Farthing was another farm owned by two brothers, Louis and Chris. They also had a herd of cows which grazed on the sloping fields below their farm. Later on I got to know them very well and for the joy of it would often pay a visit. In the winter I remember helping them chop up mangel-wurzel’s – a large tough round turnip - which was winter food for cattle. Funny odd thing to remember after all these years! Many years later Chris began courting my sister, Megan. I remember his Morris car, one with a ‘dickie’ passenger seat – a retractable open-air contraption. Mum and I were once invited for a ride in the wretched thing. We had to sit in the ‘dickie’. Mum’s hat was blown away I
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remember. It was during the winter season and we both nearly froze.
When we came to live in the house we found the name, painted in white, on each of the two five barred gates. The nearby crossroads carried a similar title and gave its name to the area, “Four Went Ways” which appeared on an enamelled plate screwed to the Post Office red pillar-box on the corner.
I believe dad paid five or six hundred pounds for Went-Ways, which at that time was a lot of money. Brand-new three-bedroom houses were then being sold for £450 on the outskirts of London, which makes Went Ways appear somewhat expensive. The inside of the bungalow was, by our standards, enormous. Viewed on a plan it would have been in the region of 60 feet long and 35 feet wide. The roof had two gables extending the whole length of the building separated by a lead gully roughly 4 feet wide. The main structure of the building was wood. I can still smell the pleasant odour of creosote with which my father coated the wood from time to time. On the front and back of the bungalow were large verandas which, via steps, led to either the front or back entrances. There was a very long and wide pebbled driveway which stretched the length of the property, terminating at either end by the five-barred gates previously mentioned. A garage lay adjacent to the house. At one end of the driveway stood a number of mature tall conifer trees. In amongst them builders had excavated two extremely deep wells or cesspits. They were covered but had vent shafts just above the surface. They were completely hidden from view by the trees
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and, remarkably enough, there were never any obnoxious smells. The house agent had informed dad that the pits were of sufficient depth to provide a natural soak away, hence dispersal of all refuse from the house. With a large family occupying the property, this was madly optimistic and unrealistic, and dad thought so at the time. There was no main drainage in the village and a refuse cart – a tanker like vehicle, often referred to in more unsavoury terms – called regularly on every house in the village at least twice a year. The refuse was taken to a sewage purification installation situated some distance from the village, in the hamlet of Etchinghill. One could smell it for miles! There was no organised refuse collection.
One side of our garden formed a boundary with Woodland Road. On the other side were extending fields with grazing sheep. We had two lawns. The largest ran from one side of the bungalow to a privet hedge separating us from a large property on the corner of Woodland Road. The lawns and garden were very extensive, more than an acre, I would guess. There were many occasions when, on the big lawn, we would play tennis or clock golf using the original metal numbers and the central pothole installed by the previous occupants.
Dad and mum had a huge job ahead for the gardens were wonderfully overgrown. In our grounds there were very many fruit trees. There remained the foundations of a large house that had been started but never completed. Only its concrete footings remained, crawling shrubs practically obscured them.
There was no gas supply to the village. Equally no electricity either, at least not when we bought the
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place. Surprisingly it had been completely wired up and fitted with the most exquisite decorative electrical fittings. In the lounge alone, there were twelve wall lights. The electric fitting were all made of bronze and arranged in pairs around the room. As the room measured some twenty-five by fifteen feet that number of lights was necessary. Wall switches were made of silver plated bronze. We wondered at first why the house was so equipped. It appeared that the previous owner, some army colonel or other had built it just before the First World War. According to the house agent, a windmill had been installed in the garden, which was capable, on a windy day, of charging a bank of lead-acid batteries kept in a shed behind the garage. In addition, there had been a diesel generator for use presumably, when the wind didn’t blow. Regrettably, all had been vandalised during the period when the building was unoccupied. When we first arrived, we had to use oil lamps and candles. Around 1933 or 1934 electricity came to the village. Remarkably, the existing installation in Went Ways became active. We merely switched on!
In the centre of the house was a long hall or passage. One end led to a large fifteen-foot square kitchen. Other doors led to the dining room, the lounge, and the three bedrooms. A large hall led to the front door. The kitchen contained fitted cupboards, a coal fired ‘oven range’, set back in an alcove, which heated the oven and provided constant hot water. When lit its glow was fabulously comforting, and from memory, seemed to be fired up all the time. The brass kettle on the hob, constantly bubbling. No sophisticated oven thermostatic yet mother always seemed to gauge
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things to perfection. Her grub was ‘Mayfair’, well we thought so. The kitchen was often the warmest room in the house, hence popular. From the kitchen a walk-in larder with an outside window and framed metal gauze screen. Always a cool area. Without electricity refrigerators were redundant Also from the kitchen a small door to the coalhouse refilled through an external hatch.
Every room in the house had beautiful leaded light windows. Verandas back and front. Of historic interest, the front veranda had a sealed dome electric fitting containing one of the very earliest electric bulbs. Handmade, guess about 1910. Remarkably, still there and working 70 years later when the property as sold.
A modern separate loo. Large bathroom provided with hot and cold running water. By our standards, the bungalow was luxurious.
Woodland Road also led from our house down to the village. On its western side there were 7 acres of land used as allotments, which formerly belonged to the Bedingfield charity and on 28 July 1928 the Charity Commissioners agreed to give land at Went Ways for road widening.
The railway operating in those days ran between Folkestone and Canterbury on a route through Elham and Barham. If I remember correctly the return fare from Lyminge to Folkestone was nine pence (old pennies) for an adult. The East Kent buses also covered this route one directed through Stelling Minis. Few cars were around. On occasions, especially on a warm summer day, dad
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would cycle to his office in Folkestone. When my sisters Eveline and Megan began working in town, at the prestigious Bobby’s store, they would often travel by push-bike.
The centre of the village was about a mile away. It could be reached by a minor road, a continuation of Woodland Road, which eventually led to the High Street, school and church, or via the Canterbury-Folkestone road. Another more interesting route was across open fields, inhabited only by woolly sheep. This latter walk led to a narrow path by the side of the Methodist Chapel on Church Road. During an air raid (last war), the Chapel was hit by a bomb and demolished. Thankfully, it was rebuilt and remains part of village history.
Facing the chapel and to our left are a row of houses. On the corner at the crossroads stands the ‘Coach and Horses’, the only public house in the village. Further on and up a slight incline is the village school, just yards from the old church.
Junior school was not something I enthused over, it is the fun bits that stick in the memory. I can but vaguely remember the Church of England primary school. Its headmaster, Nash-Brown, was a great guy. An ex officer of the Royal Navy. His wife, a tall and forbidding ‘dragon’ also taught at the same school. Two other teachers, great friends, Miss Gateskill and Miss Wyatt, were darlings!
In winter, say between November and February, there were often falls of snow. As kids, we welcomed it. It was a time for sledging. Dad would drag out the sledge,
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which he’d built, which, at a squeeze could accommodate three of us. The favoured slope lay on a hill west of the church. Tired, wet and hungry we’d trail for home. In the lounge, Mum had prepared a welcoming blazing fire, red and black coals piled high. Before it, we’d toast crumpets on a long pronged fork. Buttered, my, my, absolute heaven! The iced fruit cake, probably remaining from Xmas! What wonderful moments!
There was a very successful bakery opposite the church gates. The smell of fresh dough-nuts just emerging from a hot oven. Mouth watering!
In the High Street opposite the school, was a Smithy’s workshop. His glowing furnace and nearby anvil nearly reached the pavement. Hard to imagine such a picture today. I can remember seeing a waiting horse, watch the Smithy hammering and shaping the iron shoe. I am still amazed that the horse didn’t murmur when the red-hot disc was applied to its hoof, sizzling from the heat, then nailed into position.
Turning left at the pub takes us eventually to the centre of the village, Station Road. From one end, towards the railway station and beyond, one passed many stores; a news-agent, shoe repairer, haberdashers, grocer, butcher, wine merchant, dairy, another grocer’s, baker, and finally a hardware store which appeared to sell everything under the sun including paraffin oil, lamps and heaters. A Post Office did not then exist. Well past the railway station were several large fields. In one of them every Monday an auction of livestock took place.
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The wine store I mentioned – believe I did - was operated by our neighbours Mr. & Mrs. Hoare. They had two young boys who took pleasure in extolling the virtues of their parents night-time activities. A dairy or milk shop adjoined their shop. A haberdasher’s shop in the High Street was owned by two elderly sisters. The Co-operative store had yet to be built. Their neighbour, Reg. Evans, a friend of my father, lived next door. Shops, as I recall, were not permitted to open on a Sunday. Some law or concession allowed small shops selling only sweets and cigarettes to open however. Blanche’s, in Mayfield Road, and the small shack of a shop adjoining J J Clayson’s wood yard, qualified. Oh, yes, one other. At the end of the High Street towards Woodland Road, was a small cottage which had a small ‘shop’ in its front room. Owned and run by a Mrs. Mills, a widow with a young daughter.
The milkman called regularly and other traders, such as the baker, a man selling fresh fish and the butcher would call at different intervals during the week. Sometime in 1935/6 Sainsbury’s from Folkestone introduced a free delivery service once a week to customers in Lyminge. Another infrequent caller was the French onion man, who travelled around on his bicycle. A gypsy would occasionally call selling pegs, etc. Their encampment was on Stone Street. Their children would sometimes attend the village school.
I cannot hope to put memories in their correct order. Enough just to record. At the lower village end of Woodland Road there was a detached bungalow, owned I vaguely remember by a Miss Shillingford - opposite of
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which was an old oak tree - and a large mansion. The oak tree became a favourite for us kids for one could reach the telegraph wires if you climbed high enough. There was a time when a small aircraft landed in the field opposite, an unusual event. The pilot was visiting friends or relatives in the large mansion. Even aircraft from Hawkinge rarely appeared over the village.
There was a Mr. Stoakley who lived in Kimberley Terrace. He was a short man with a distinctive crooked nose. He was a jack of all trades. He ran a shoe repair shop from a shed in his garden. He also acted as the village postman. With no electricity in the village in those early days, street lamps were fired by paraffin oil. The official street lamplighter would each morning and evening travel around the village on his bicycle, a ladder slung over his shoulder, ready to light or extinguish these oil lamps. I might add that roads on the perimeter such as Brady Road carried few of these primitive beacons! The light they gave was poor and their infrequency left eerie patches of darkness. Walking home from choir practice, in the dark, along a poorly lit Woodland Road, was scary. Equally frightening were the flying bats who always seemed to be around after dark. There were tales of the woman from upper Woodland Road who was supposedly mad and appeared when the moon was in the right quarter! Thankfully I never met her.
From time to time there was sadness or some calamity. I can recall but a few. A young lady, unmarried so it was said, lived in a house on the High Street with her young child. She experienced troublesome gossip which made life for her unpleasant. Then there was
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sadness for a family living in Church Road, on a corner house by a bridle path. A family member perished when travelling on one of the early flying boats out of Southampton. It had crashed en route to India or some such foreign part. The murders in Skeet Road was another tragedy. A farmer for reasons unknown, shot his wife and one of his two sons.
One particular tragedy - a beastly one if I recall – concerned a ‘coloured’ lady who was the village’s resident nurse and just happened to be ‘black’. I remember her particularly because at the time my sister and I were seriously ill at home with Pneumonia – antibiotics did not then exist. Survival from this virus was touch and go. Many died, including my younger brother, Basil.
Dr Patterson the local physician, attended regularly. During the ‘crisis’ the village nurse called every day to apply hot chest poultices and other medication. My parents were extremely grateful for her supreme nursing care and upset when she was ‘eased out’ of the village, because of her colour, by some religious bigot. Believe his name was Day, a bishop no less.
On happier notes. Events in the village hall were numerous. There were theatrical events, whist drives, and one ridiculous tableau I remember was a re-creation of life in the trenches during WW1. Ex soldiers from that disaster – dad chose not to participate - gathered on stage, wearing their old army uniforms. The evening was
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spent singing old war-time melodies. Then the circus came to the village, a very rare visit indeed, causing great excitement. The Fair, with its swings and their multi- coloured furry ropes, was a frequent visitor. One big event of the year was the village fete, held in the large grounds of the Rectory. Many exhibitors. Stalls selling homemade produce, jams, marmalade, cakes, etc. I think it was at this time that Walls introduced the travelling ice cream man. It must have been quite a feat pedalling his tricycle with its spacious ice cream container in the front.
My association with the Church occurred when I joined the church choir. I also pumped the church organ occasionally, for which we were paid the princely sum of sixpence - an absolute fortune at my age. Of course, one had to stay for the whole service, pumping furiously so as not to let the sound wither away. It was hard work when a chord, il crescendo, was sustained for more than a few seconds. The choir mistress, also organist, was a Miss Vera Collins. Her father owned the shoe shop. I can see him now through the shop window bent over repairing a shoe, cutting the leather around it, his gnarled thumb leading the way as he clasped the curved razor- sharp knife. At Christmas Vera Collins would get a group of choristers together and we would travel around the village singing Christmas carols. I remember us calling at a couple of grand estates, one located at Etchinghill and the other known as the Woodlands Animal Welfare and Treatment Centre – or some such name. The lady of the Animal centre gave us cakes made with ‘lard’ cakes, pretty foul.
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Vera’s poor mother later suffered from dementia. We were also taught Middle Eastern music, by a retired guy who lived at the far end of Canterbury Road. He was better known for his inebriated ejections from the Coach and Horses!
A Co-operative grocery store was finally built near the school shortly after we arrived. The manager, Mr. Pilcher, was, I believe, a neighbour. In the summer his staff would place on the large forecourt wicker baskets filled with local fruits and vegetables currently in season. One day, copying my peers, I stole a couple of plums. Unfortunately, one of their assistants saw me and it became a racing match. I escaped but the adage, crime doesn’t pay, become a priority.
The old High Street then possessed a haberdashers. Now understand it’s a fish and chip shop. The small shop I mentioned earlier, owned by Mrs. Mills, stocked sweets to attract. One particular attraction was I suppose a gamble. Consisted of a papier-mâché box, the front covered with strong paper on which small circles had been painted. You paid a penny to prick one of these circles, which resulted in the release of a coloured ball. Depending on its colour so you received, greater or less sweets for your investment! High finance! Purchasing power? I can recall that for a farthing you could buy a ‘Trebor’ bar. A sweet, rock hard and ‘lickable’ for ages. Then the triangular shaped bags of sherbet complete with a liquorice straw. Sometimes the sherbet came in yellow cylindrical containers. Cost a ‘ha’penny’, half an old penny. Enough, you say, enough of this.
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In the early 1930’s ice cream was not readily available in our village. Mother made her own. Her method, by today’s standards, would be considered primitive. A wooden casket, inside of which was an aluminium cylinder for the ice cream mixture. The cylinder was attached to a handle on the outside to rotate it. Between cylinder and casket one packed broken ice, which the dairy in the village sold. After turning the cylinder for a while, you created delicious ice-cream.
With school friends we dug a deep trench in dad’s garden. Above it we constructed a sort of roof using odd bits of wood, broken branches, and finished off with grass or straw. A sort of clubhouse, out of bounds to our parents. We would often light a bonfire where to roast potatoes pinched from dad’s garden. The skins often caught fire. They took an eternity to bake but the end result, just for the flavour, well, so I vaguely remember. Other activities, well playing football or cricket in a field nearby. Never bored and summer seemed everlasting! We walked, oh yes, miles to visit friends, or to the woods to gather blackberries, mushrooms, oh, loads of natures free fruit.
A bicycle was the future, something yearned for. At this time my friends and I were happy to rely on Shanks’s pony. The term exhaustion wasn’t in our vocabulary which is just as well. Finally, the great day, when about eleven, dad gifted me with a ‘Raleigh’ bicycle! It had three gears!
As my father had so much land and the task of maintaining it all a burden, he decided to sell off a plot to
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the local police sergeant who, I believe, originally lived in the Police station in Mayfield Road.
My father was one of the original founders of Lyminge bowls club which was formed in 1933. (An account of the club is shown in the magazine, Lyminge a History, Part Nine). A small wooden pavilion was built and when playing against visiting teams, the ladies would often serve refreshments in this hut. When the Club played away they’d hire a coach, which the landlord of the local pub, Joe Clayson arranged.. Mum, my sister Margaret and I would often go along.
People in the village got to know of dad’s occupation. He would make their wills, arrange house conveyances and within his scope of knowledge give legal advice, usually for free. A year or so later my father sold another plot of land, this time to a kind, gentle giant of a man, Edward Burren, who worked for a local joinery firm by the name of J.J. Clayson. Mr Burren was their master carpenter and also acted as an undertaker. Having bought the land he set about building a bungalow which he eventually occupied with his wife and their young son, then about seven or eight years old and, also known as Edward (Ted). He became one of my greatest friends. Young Ted turned into a craftsman of the highest calibre and in a class of his own. He ultimately produced items of such fineness and beauty that they were comparable with those of the Georgian (Sheridan) period. Later in life Ted was involved in the restoration of antique musical instruments, such as harpsichords, many of which had suffered badly due to long term neglect, especially that belonging to the Queen Mum.
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In my heart Lyminge will always remain linked with my youth. I might count the time when a German bomb fell in the field across from Went-Ways in 1940, and joining the Royal Navy in 1941, as the beginning of the end of my close relationship with this wonderful, ancient parish. And so to the future.
War and the Aftermath. Only in someone so very young and with little interest in matters political – well, maybe that’s not strictly true - would one contemplate entering, voluntarily at least, into a contract to risk their lives by premature access to such an environment as war. In retrospect, however, one now knows that nearly everyone in the UK would be at risk after our declaration of war with Germany in September 1939. All of this was of course precipitated by yet another act of aggression by Nazi Germany, the invasion of Poland.
Unlike our ignoble behaviour when earlier, the Nazis hoard had invaded Czechoslovakia, the United Kingdom had a Treaty of Alliance with Poland which our Government decided, reluctantly, to honour. One flower in summer does not guarantee a garland therefore Hitler was extremely over-optimistic to imagine that he could conquer and occupy the whole of Europe, including the Soviet Union. History does tend to repeat itself in that aggressors invariably come unstuck in the end, as Napoleon found to his cost.
In years, I was fifteen and a half, and it showed in the very unsophisticated nature of the beast! My immediate friends and associates were similarly
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unenlightened and it followed that I would sadly follow the trend of some of my contemporaries. ‘Freedom’ was a term banded around as if its loss was imminent. We were undoubtedly manipulated by Government propaganda, which, although un-subtle, appeared to work. I cannot say that I was much influenced by jingoistic slogans, such as ‘Fighting for one’s country’. ‘Joining in the fray’. This was hardly intellectual stuff for who in their right mind voluntarily offers to risk their lives for causes outside their comprehension.
Emotions were fed by high sounding phrases which might be considered appropriate for such occasions! This sound’s terribly critical and unkind, but in truth the reality of the world situation at that time, or at least that of Europe, did not seriously invade my young mind or that of many of my friends. A very sad admission.
It is right and proper to expose our inadequacies, yet the true villains of the peace are politicians, with their well-warn phrases and promises. By the beginning of 1939, all vestige of harmony amongst many European nations was fast disappearing.
The post world-war-one Versailles Treaty of Non Aggression, agreed amongst the nations of Europe, had long since been abrogated. Following on from 1918, the crippling war reparations on Germany imposed by Britain and France, together with the deteriorating political and economic situation in that country, had eventually and inevitably attracted a new, albeit jingoistic, political movement. They offered an ‘attractive alternative’ to the incumbent government who
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legitimately presided over an economically depressed Germany.
This new group, generally known as the Nazi party, were nationalistic and sadly, anti-humanitarian. Its leader, one Adolph Hitler, an Austrian by birth who, by virtue of his oratorical flamboyance and temperament, attracted many followers. Hitler and his newly formed party, first turned towards the unemployed, the deprived, and many others who grasped at the opportunity for change to the status quo. Thus began the reign of Nazism, one soon turning to totalitarianism and aggression.
All opposition to it was soon disabled or annihilated. The Nazi imposed version of nationalism had dire consequences for many living in the Germany. They incited hatred by their misleading propaganda, and citizens who were of Jewish origin, homosexual, socialists, etc were, in the main, targets for brutal discrimination or worse.
What is incredible is that the Nazi’s, during the 1930’s, were allowed to prosper and propagate their obnoxious philosophy. Prior to the onset of world war two, they had eager ‘fellow travellers’ from other countries, not excluding the United Kingdom where Oswald Mosley and other like supporters openly proclaimed their allegiance to the Nazi doctrine. The show-down came with the outbreak of war between the Allies – France and Great Britain – and Germany. Oswald Mosley and some his fellow travellers were quickly interned and would remain incarcerated during the conflict. The rise and fall of Adolph Hitler’s criminality is well documented though, sadly, the graves
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of thousands serve as reminders of this terrible Nazi epidemic!
During the early nineteen thirties, Hitler’s Germany began re-arming. Alongside them arose the prominence of other leading fascists government, in Spain, Portugal and Italy, all tarred with the same evil brush.
Franco, with his anti Royalist army and with the help of Germany’s Air Force, soon imposed his predominance in Spain. One might suggest that that set the pattern of things to come. Many brave volunteers from the UK fought alongside Spain’s Royalists. Portugal’s fate similarly followed with its army-imposed dictator. Because of its geographical location Portugal did not appear as a serious threat.
Mussolini, despite his non too bright mantle, managed, however, to take dictatorial power in Italy. He is remembered for his infamous invasion of Abyssinia, and his use of poisonous gas.
During all of this time and witness to this obvious movement towards aggression, and inevitably, war, our Conservative Government chose to allow these tyrants free reign, to ‘turn the blind eye’ as the saying goes. Our ally, France, showed similar disinterest, particularly as they had great trust in their ‘Maginot Line’, an armed trench or tunnel following the German border. Unfortunately it did not extend along the Belgium border which was an obvious outflanking route. Treaties and democracy are of little value in a dictatorial world.
America, politically isolationistic at that time, was disinterested in the warring events in Europe. One
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remembers, however, the brave US pilots who travelled here to join the RAF as volunteers. The U.S was also our main supplier of military hardware. Ironically, their government had not, as yet, become alerted to what was happening in their own back yard. They soon would!
Japan’s massive re-armament activity could not have escaped notice? It took the unprovoked Japanese attack on America’s Pearl Harbour that quickly put things into perspective. That the Japanese would pit its strength against such a mighty industrial nation as the USA must surely rate as one of its craziest decisions ever.
Before world war two, the Nazi persecution and slaughter of Jews, communists, and many others in Germany, was becoming evident, yet the inaction of other ‘civilised’ countries in Europe and the rest of the world, is assuredly a bloody marker on their conscious’s. Communism was the Capitalist’s biggest bogey man, and attitudes of many countries towards it, utterly hostile. Later all would change with Hitler’s attempted invasion of the USSR.
Russia’s support (now an ally) was a deciding factor in the outcome of World War Two.
If our youth was lacking appreciation of the country’s journey towards Gomorrah, that of our own Government left much to be questioned. In fact one wonders how many in the pack (Government) secretly subscribed to Fascism. It’s broadsheets, e.g. The Mail, Express, et al, in the beginning at least, embraced this testament of hate. The discerning knew that we were heading towards another bloody conflict. This ultimate
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‘crime’ lay with politicians of the ‘right’, whose concern was more for Party than for Country.
The tired old Tory prime minister, Neville Chamberlain, nearing the end of his tenure as prime minister, attempted a ‘pact’ with Hitler who was threatening other countries, with invasion or annexation’. The Chamberlain ‘pact’ was a declaration by Germany that its ‘aspirations’ were now fully satisfied.
The UK’s right wing press went euphoric in its praise of Chamberlain and blazoned pictures of him waving the ‘pact’ document as he walked from his returning aircraft, declaiming, Peace in our time. The same right wing ‘patriots’ - the Tory press again - would shortly alter their tabloids tune following Germany’s invasion of Poland. Our treaty with Poland at least provided the lynch pin for action. Chamberlain demanded Germany withdraw from Poland at once - or else! The ‘or else’ had it, and Chamberlain’s voice, broadcast from the BBC at 11am on the 3rd September 1939, announced that Britain was now at war with Germany.
Remarkably, enlightenment and subsequent leadership, came from a very unexpected source. Winston Churchill, an in/out Tory, previously beyond the pale because of his bleak warnings of impending conflict in Northern Europe. He had been fighting a lone battle within his own Party, a party which was, by and large, sympathetic towards Hitler and its fascism.
Gracious, doesn’t this bloke go on, well, with history’s past who wouldn’t! In this world there are those who demand, as the saying goes, ‘that we stand up
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and be counted.’ Beware, for there are many of those who belatedly stand vertical but whose hearts are not equivocal.
The Sea Cadets. A flash back. In the mid 1930’s I joined an organisation known as Sea Cadets. It was in some ways affiliated to or at least sponsored by the Royal Navy. Not surprisingly, once war was declared, the RN would find it a very convenient source for recruiting volunteers. Why I joined the Sea Cadets I really can’t say. It might must have been the influence of my neighbour, Patrick Hoare, with whom I was friendly and who was already a member of a group of Sea Cadets located in the village of Elham, a couple of miles up the road. Knowing my general attitude towards any form of discipline, I’m very surprised that I got involved. That initial involvement began around 1937.
The guy who owned the grocery store in Elham, Kenneth Hubble, had initiated the formation of a group of young men, called Sea Cadets, and appropriated the title of ‘Commanding Officer’. He ‘dressed up’ at least once a week or on special occasions. I must say that he looked very smart in his naval get-up. He assumed the title of Lieu-Commander - his sleeve carried two thick and one thin, gold braid bands. His son, Roy, was also a member and his dad immediately promoted him to the rank of ‘Leading...’ something or other, his armband carried two stripes. Later Roy joined the Navy’s Fleet Air Arm, where he qualified as a fighter pilot.
The Sea Cadets, as then conceived, was supposed to imitate the real thing. It certainly involved marching around rather pointlessly. Rowing was another activity
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and to this end we kept a big old open boat or skiff on a nearby lake.
We were instructed in communicating by semaphore. A small flag in either hand achieved this by following a routine of movements depicting the alphabet. Of greater interest to me, and significance later on, was learning to send and receive messages using the Morse Code. Samuel Morse, an American artist and scientist, together with Alfred Vail, invented this technique during the early 19th century. They called it the Morse Code.
Fifty or so years would pass before I became acquainted with the Sea Cadets again. I had recently renewed my friendship with Edward Burren, known as Ted, a close neighbour from my childhood or adolescent days. We were both now retired. Sadly he died shortly afterwards. He had retained contact with the Elham Sea Cadets. For old times’ sake, I joined him at a re-union of the ‘old’ boys. I witnessed today’s Cadets parading on the village square. I was surprised that such interest still exists. In these days of egalitarianism is did not surprise me that young girls were included in the squad’.
The Sea Cadets provided a ‘passport’ to joining the Royal Navy. I would have been about sixteen and a half years old when opting to take this route. That I was allowed by my parents to join the Royal Navy at such a young age, is surprising, because not long before, on the 17th September, 1939, my cousin, Geoffrey William Spiller (mum’s nephew) at the age of nineteen, died aboard HMS Courageous which had been torpedoed by U-29, not far from the coast of Ireland.
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The Royal Navy. On the third of October 1941 I officially joined the Royal Navy. There were, however, preliminaries before any of this could take place. First, as a sea-cadet, I had to attend a pre-training centre. This ‘centre’ was in fact on a converted old canal barge which was then floating on the Worcester to Birmingham Canal. She did not move from her mooring at Worcester. As well as a classroom,, the barge also accommodated some of us would-be sailors.
The sole purpose of our stay was to become proficient in communicating in the Morse Code. Joining the real thing came later! Well, at least six weeks later, when, after passing satisfactory tests, we were allowed into the real thing. This meant travelling to the Royal Naval training centre, an encampment named HMS Collingwood established on the outskirts of Plymouth.
Here I became officially enlisted, as a ‘boy telegraphist’ with the ‘grand’ reward of three shillings (15 pence today) per week. It is interesting to record, especially as food was then rationed, that my mother sent me food parcels! The Navy’s offering was insufficient! Mind you, three shillings would allow several visits to the fish and chip shop in town. Throughout my stay in the RN I always found insufficient or inadequate vitals!
HMS Collingwood consisted of many Nissan Huts, sleeping quarters and class rooms. This was my initiation into sharing ‘digs’ with others. Modesty, that ersatz word, was soon shattered, and I quickly realised that privacy was not on offer. With my predisposition towards same-sex relationships, although encounters
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were rare, I was not averse to entering such scenarios should the opportunity present itself!.
Tuition in Morse telegraphy and associated communication procedures took about four or so months. Luckily the course was intense enough to avoid any involvement in other Naval practices, such as marching, rowing, and other activities. Luckily the aim of the ‘management’, was to get us ‘qualified’ in the art of telegraphy as quickly as possible. Once considered competent in this communicating skill, I was eventually sent off to join my very first ship.
Innocence and Bliss. Both are relevant, particularly for one at the early age of say, ten or eleven, for the blight of adult prejudice and hypocrisy had not yet infiltrated the innocent minds of kids like me. Innocent? Well, I have to declare a time when I could claim to being un-tarnished! How dull! Our generation were not ‘babes in the wood’ though not as sophisticated as the young juveniles claim to be today, though I believe that is a myth! Despite the inhibitive views of a few of our so called seniors, the terms held some force and favour with us.
One wonders what causes the disease of minds where inhumane thoughts and actions affect so many in our society. And we dare call them civilised!
During this time, outside influences attempted to fashion, in the beginning at least, the pattern of life, particularly behaviour, they would like us to follow. Fortunately, even in the young, the natural instinct would be to follow their natural instincts. The realisation or identification of one’s homosexuality within a so called
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‘normal’ environment, can be problematic, often only tolerated if it is secured behind locked doors and minds, for to venture into that verboten world of honesty, then you are or were in trouble. I am referring to the 1930’s and before. To suffer a guilt complex over one’s gayness was not uncommon, though ‘twas a crazy notion by today’s standards.
Most gay men and women do not exhibit noticeable traits to identify them as being homosexual. Why on earth should they! There are some, however, who like to exhibit their so-called differences, ‘tis the actor in them’! Just a few wear guilt consciences. It shouldn’t matter a jot, but sadly we’ve allowed it to. Now, in this year of 2019, we can look back on gay liberalisation’s progression as it spread throughout most civilised countries. Gay persecution is no longer a vote winner.
Having said all of that, one cannot ignore the UK’s historic past. By the late 1930’s most countries in Europe, except Germany and her allies, were beginning to endorse universal freedom for everyone, irrespective of race, colour, religion or sexual orientation. I say that with ‘tongue in cheek’! The UK trailed the rest for we still had ‘those’ persistent homophobes who would see us ‘hung drawn and quartered’, to quote from some ancient and barbaric text. They, the enemy, the barbarians, are the villains of the piece in this debate and, even today, are still a cause for concern.
Listening to Parliamentary debates on the subject in the 1960’s; you would still hear many of the barbaric neo-fascist cranks, particularly from certain elements of the media and politics, espousing their poisonous wit.
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Many were hypocrites and frauds! How can one forget the disgraceful antics of, for example, of that infamous and evil bitch, Mary Whitehouse and her ‘queer’ associate, Cliff Richards. Both claiming allegiance to some ersatz religious cult. In the 1950’s you had the famous witch-hunt resulting in Lord Montagu, his friend, Wildblood and another, being jailed for having sex with a couple of consenting RAF guys. These reminders should bring back the memories of yore, with their multitudinous injustices.
Many religious organisations at that time (I exclude the Plymouth Brethren who followed a more humanitarian path) with their out-crop of audacious cant, whilst proclaiming allegiance to Christianity, purposely added to the prejudice against the world’s gay population. They screeched and bombarded the media with their evil propaganda, claiming homosexuality a foul pestilence. Their claimed ‘favoured’ patron or icon, Jesus Christ, appropriated from the past, was decidedly unmarried. His disciples were indisputably male - or so we are led to believe. One might question, not His proclamations or judgements, but perhaps give thought to his own personal orientation! ‘Tis no wonder that they crucified the poor chap! Had He been alive today He would undoubtedly have suffered a similar fate.
Fortunately, in 1967, despite the ‘holy’ outburst from certain quarters and we can hardly not know where they came from, the homosexuality flag was finally ‘hoisted to the yard-arm’ and de-criminalised in England. A great day! I was thirty-two at the time and already into my first real love affair - one which would last for over fifty years.
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The foregoing may appear to make me sound very unforgiving of certain individuals and their associated ‘faiths’, but the diabolical harm they caused over many years and, to lesser extent, continue to cause, is unforgivable.
At 95, I have not, thank goodness, sunk into intellectual oblivion, and my sexual orientation has never been in doubt or for that matter a problem. For heaven sake, why should it? Nature will out as they say, and I go along with that. To hell with the dissenters.|
It all began when I was around ten or eleven. Despite the vicious picture painted by some of the ‘trespassers’ on this planet I did not crave a doll, male or female or other feminine accoutrements to signify a difference. It was, however, a time of awakening from ‘innocent’ childhood. Innocent? I firmly believe that I was born sporting an erection! At least I was becoming aware of creation’s free-given sexual urges. Boy, oh, boy, I can even remember when it all began – at least I believe it went something like this
I was a young pupil at the village’s elementary school at the time and, like many of my peers, already aware of these new found sexual feelings. The process of satisfying such feeling was simplicity itself, and came about naturally. Engaging imaginative thoughts, some maybe a trifle outrageous in one so young, surely helped climb the slippery pole! Nobody spoke of hormones, what the hell were they? I was maturing just as nature intended and in the process becoming - well ‘addicted’ will do - to something that was free, readily available, and which became even more exaggerated if there was a participating third party present, in my case, of course, a
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male! That the opposite sex never crossed my sexual vision was, I guess, a clear indication of the way things were pointing. I am pleased to recall that many of my friends bathed in the same sexual euphoria! It would seem that the Establishment’s puritanical garbage had justifiably failed.
If one could claim that there was a moment, a specific time, when sexual awakening really ‘kicked in’, then for me it was during one of our classroom breaks.
The school’s playground was large and contained the boys toilet. Often, daring students would go there to light up the illicit ‘fag’, the popular Woodbine became the favourite as they were the cheapest on the market and just within the scope of one’s pocket-money, at least for a pack of five. This brick built edifice was also witness to other ‘forbidden’ activities. Yes, yes, we’re back to sex again, that everlasting comforter! One memorable occasion comes to mind.
Several of the lads, many older than me, followed a somewhat precocious older student, named Arthur, into the loo. Word had spread that he was to demonstrate his virility - I chose that word carefully! Then, I was uncertain as to what it all meant but instinctively knew that my education was about to be enhanced! I had to seek the ‘knowledge’. Who am I kidding? I was obviously grossly ‘bent’ even then.
Without the slightest embarrassment, Arthur lowered his short trousers and produced a very erect penis. For me that outrageous gesture was exciting. He then began masturbating. Elucidation came quickly, as did he! At the time it was probably considered extremely
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daring, and undoubtedly forbidden, which I suppose was its appeal.
I suppose today Arthur would be considered an exhibitionist or poseur. He obviously enjoyed an audience. Many of those watching decided to imitate the ‘procedure’ yet I have no doubt that many had long since reached that ‘manipulative’ level. It was a long time ago yet I vaguely remember the looks of happiness on very many satisfied faces. A few may have experienced tinges of guilt, possibly resulting from listening to adult protestations even though many of these protesters were ardent practitioners themselves! How on earth can sex be sinful! Mind over matter soon comes to the rescue and sets it straight.
It could also have been the beginning of a new learning curve for me, Guilt has no place in all of this yet, sadly, it intrudes from time to time.
From this point we progress a few years to my thirteen or so birthday when I was living with friends in Folkestone in order to attend a more senior school. Also staying in the same house at that time was an old retired Scottish army officer, a colonel no less, now in his eighties. He was a ‘confirmed’ bachelor. Despite his age or because of it, his sexual ambitions knew no bounds. On many occasions he would ‘accost’ me, then I wanted to be accosted, but not by him. The same went for another young lad also staying in the same house, and maybe he was more obliging, especially for the proffered silver sixpenny piece! The colonel made many overtures to obtain sexual favours! That ‘foreign’ definitive word, homosexual, applied to him in no small measure. Mind you, I was bloody close behind!
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Unfortunately, for him at least, my interest lay with lads of my own age. I did not consider the old Scottish soldier’s behaviour wrong nor took offence. Not in the least. It was just a question of youth and personal preference.
A little later, I attended a college which specialised in teaching English, shorthand, typing, etc. One day, returning home from college, I was accompanied by another pupil, a girl, whose name escapes me. Other pupils had mentioned her freedom in providing ‘sexual’ favours. Stupidly, I thought I should follow the band, and attempt that ‘normal’ act. At least give it a try! I should have known better and the result was an inevitable disaster. If I needed a sharp lesson on my singular homosexuality, then this was it! Despite my boggled attempt she and I remained the best of friends.
By now, my sexuality was clearly defined. I did not display any gay postures, whatever they were. Those that I read about or performed by actors, were totally alien. Unfortunately, for a long time, I did not encounter any who shared my sexual proclivity. My attendance at church - I was a member of the choir for a short while – initially enlisted slight feelings of guilt over my situation, but luckily, common sense prevailed, and rightly so.
During the whole of my childhood I never heard the term homosexual ever mentioned, and ‘gay’ was a much later interloper. The reality was there, however, for actions speak louder than words, and my actions most assuredly did. Homophobes, if they were around, never crossed my path. One rarely read or heard mention of homosexuality except much later on when it
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attracted serious debate in the media - at least with a few of ‘em. Sometimes one heard bitter, evil and misguided comments. Totally outrageous. General Montgomery’s diatribe in the Lords comes to mind, though he was as bent as ‘Teller’s fork’. Such critics are luckily in the minority. My uninhibited hormones, knew the right path to follow.
One could go on and on about one’s early sexual encounters. The grapevine tells me that most males are not averse to engaging in same sex behaviour. However, give it an identity and they fly like the wind.
Love can be a separate issue, yet I wish it always to be part and parcel of a relationship, creating a ‘marriage’ in fact. In my youth I experienced love, or thought I did. Maybe it was perhaps immature posturing. Reciprocity is luck when it happens, though there can be bad experiences. I am constantly looking back, amending, and concerned that I do not sink into an abyss of depression. So, ahead with the future.
To the fray – so to speak. The fray was of course the war, something not unexpected considering the chaos in Europe with its many despots, all aiming to be ‘Cock of the North’. In retrospect, it is amazing that the combined might of the USA, France and Britain didn’t curb the ambitions of these German, Italian and Spanish monsters who would go on to cause mammoth disasters resulting in the death of thousands of men, women and children, in the UK and elsewhere in the world. However back to the Gay world.
I was a mere 16 plus years when the war began, I was a member of the Elham Valley Sea Cadets at this
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time which emulated, to some extent, the procedures of the Royal Navy. Needless to say it offered a quick entry into that Service. In an unsophisticated move, I took this so called ‘opportunity’, perhaps foolishly? Well, as it turned out there were happy moments, some with untold benefits!
If I was concerned about my sexuality I needn’t have bothered. I ended up initially in the Naval barracks at Portsmouth, a crazy scenario known as HMS Collingwood. By this time we were dressed in naval ‘drag’, I mean bell-bottoms of course!
I had not been used to sleeping en masse. Now, we were billeted in long Nissan huts with single beds arranged down each side. Familiarity or whatever one likes to call it, soon kicked in. Privacy was a thing of the
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past! Whether freedom from home influenced behaviour, it certainly didn’t influence mine. I might have been considered precocious from the start.
Many in our hut were, refreshingly, uninhibited; shyness left way behind. Some might consider them, well a few of ‘em, sexually precocious. Personally. I viewed it as a positive bonus! In these circumstances, the boundaries of immodesty had to widen. For many it was a great new world, far removed from home where ‘behaviour’ was often monitored or restricted, but not in yours truly’s case.
Obscene thoughts often result in some form of realistic promise - I speak from experience - where
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sexual taboos, those man-made killjoys, are shoved aside. Physical demand is a powerful tool! Nature, possibly combined with another two handed buccaneer, preferably well informed etc............, offers the best choice. Who cares which comes first!
Maturity, along with its associated libido, often locks horns with man-made obscenity values, unreasonably so, for obscenity is often nothing more than our wildest dreams. One cannot satisfy every quirk of the mind, of course, but to shun imaginative sexual thought is just crazy. Many arrive at the arousal stage in early adolescence, (wishful thinking I hear you say) and develop into adulthood with more realistic fantasies. I include myself as an object of such maturity.
There were shocks in store, well, no, surprises would be more appropriate. I am not overly modest - you can say that again, Spickett - but neither am I a prude. Some of the lads in the hut were sexually exhibitionistic and often proud to prove it. To my surprise - well one had to pretend - they proceeded to demonstrate their virtuosity by, on occasions, actually masturbating in front of all of those who had remained in the hut to watch – I was not at the back of the queue! It was, however, a novel experience for me, but in retrospect, totally welcomed. Pervert, I hear you say, well, let me just tell you, there were many others, yes, so called ‘normal’ who were more than pleased to rally around and watch. Although this live sexual display was stimulating to watch, I consciously kept my own proclivity under wraps, an instinct born and carried since my childhood. This flamboyant sexual introduction
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