SUMMER BREAK

WAVE-ING GOODBYE – WITH A SPLASH AND A LAUGH

 

A simple ashes-scattering ceremony at his beloved Gyllyngvase Beach in Falmouth last month marked the final farewell for Brian Thomas, retired journalist and multi-talented cartoonist, author, musician and song-writer.

 

Although latterly living and working in Devon, he began his journalistic career on the Falmouth Packet in the early 1970s and left many good friends and fond memories here.

 

In his adult life, he regularly provided humorous drawings for his newspapers. 

 

It was while at Falmouth’s Trescobeas County Secondary School that his talent as a cartoonist came to the fore, with the creations of many comic book adventures about his classmates. 

 

I clearly remembered all this when, in 2014, I published a collection of my own Packet columns at the start of my retirement “career” of creating local nostalgia books in aid of Cancer Research UK.

 

I challenged Brian to come up with original cartoons to illustrate some, and preferably all, of the 45 columns reproduced.

 

I’d had my reservations about making this request – he was already long into his own retirement, after all – but boy, did Brian come up trumps. 

 

He did his peerless stuff for not just some of the columns (which would have been marvellous) but the whole bloomin’ lot, which was absolutely brilliant.  

 

Every one of them was a winner, and none more so than one that sprang to mind during that ashes ceremony last month.

 

Several of the attendees, you see, myself included, got a drenching when a rogue bigger wave shot ashore and soaked our feet and legs.

 

We quickly saw the funny side of it because we concluded - of course - that this was Our Brian’s way of wave-ing his final goodbye, and having a cracking good laugh in the process. 

 

For me, it also took me back nearly 50 years to the time when I was the Packet’s chief reporter and for my lunch breaks I would routinely head down to Gylly for my daily all-year-round swim.

 

That’s right – all year round. On one of those days, in deep midwinter, some Packet colleagues came down to see for themselves what this chump was getting up to away from his desk.

 

Trouble was, I really shouldn’t have gone in because it was dangerously rough, and I had the devil’s own job getting out again. I waved and shouted in panic, but my colleagues merely smiled and waved back, mistakenly believing I was just being friendly.

 

Naturally, I wrote about this in one of those Packet columns, and here’s how Brian illustrated it in my book:

 

The four stages of misinterpreted drowning:

1      Gestures for help considered playful “waving”

2      Going down for the fourth time interpreted as

“waving with his toes now”

3      Cast ashore by a “real” wave

4      Safely on land and applauded for a 

brilliant “reverse dive”

 

   I still have two spare copies of this book, in perfect condition. Let me know if you’d like one.

 

 

ULTIMATE ACCOLADE FOR RELUCTANT RAW REPORTER

 

Congratulations to Cornwall on winning the County Rugby Championship last Saturday, beating Lancashire 39-24 at Twickenham.

 

Final appearances have become almost a habit for the Duchy in recent times. It was all very different back in 1969, when the two teams met in the final played at Redruth before a crowd of 20,000-plus.

 

Lancashire won that one 11-9, storming back after Cornwall had led 9-0 at half-time, and it was the latter’s first final appearance since 1928.

 

I was dispatched by editor Ken Thompson to cover the 1969 clash for the Packet. 

 

I was more than a little nervous about it all as a) I was still a raw trainee, and b) I was a round-ball man (having to miss my beloved Falmouth Town football that afternoon), with strictly limited knowledge of the finer points of rugby.

 

I did the best I could – certainly managed to inject a fair amount of passion into my report – but could I write with anything resembling meaningful comment and analysis? 

 

Could I heck! And I’ve no doubt that any reader more familiar with rugby would have instantly recognised this fact.

 

One such reader was popular local dentist and cricketer Gordon Mann. The next day – after Packet publication – I found myself covering Falmouth Cricket Club’s annual dinner-dance at the Hotel St Michaels.

 

As I rolled up, anxious to impress a young Jackie Dominic at my side, I was met by a beaming Gordon who, bless him, immediately declared: “Congratulations, Mike.  Of all the reports I’ve read on that match – national and local – I have to say yours was the very best of them.”

 

Ahem . . . Gordon was nothing if not kind and I knew full well that he was flattering me to help a budding young journalist along his way.

 

I didn’t admit that to Jackie then, of course; and it was a good wee while before I modestly shared the truth – that I almost literally had no idea what I was writing about - with anyone else. 

 

Gradually, though, I spread the word.

 

And nowadays I’m still dining out on the tale!

 

SHIFTING SANDS . . . AND SHIFTING STORY!  

 

This item began life as an invitation to say a prayer, if you had some to spare, for Emily and her team at Falmouth’s Castle Beach Café.  

 

Last summer I highlighted the lack of sand at the beach after a late spring south easterly gale had re-deposited it all on the west side, leaving the main area directly beneath the café a rocky barren.

 

Nature had never re-dressed the balance for that holiday season and I remarked that it was pretty much the first time in living memory that this had happened.

 

Alas, towards the end of last month, there was an almost despairing tone about this Facebook post from the café:

 

“Yes, the sand has left us again this year. HOWEVER, it’s just to the right of the café, if you walk along the rocks. 

 

“ . . . It makes me really sad that people are put off by the lack of sand right in front of the café.  I promise it’s still here; it’s just hiding out of sight of the road!”

 

I had originally ended this piece with a line about lightning striking twice.  

 

BUT, but, but . . . when I checked earlier this week, the sand had evidently been re-dumped in its rightful place. Only snag was, it was now buried, and all but in-visible, beneath tons of seaweed!

 

And then, for my second and final Stop Press, take a look at these pics from last night. If you zoom in a bit, you can see that even the seaweed is clearing and, crucially, much of that sand is now back directly beneath the café. 

 

All those rocks are still very much in evidence, but slowly – and I hope surely – that sand IS returning!

 

COP THIS – THE HEADLINE THAT BROUGHT IT ALL BACK FOR ME

My attention was caught early one day last week by a headline highlighting a warning that “UK policing could be driven back to the ‘60s.”

In an instant, of course, I realised its deadly context. 

But even more swiftly – let’s call it a micro-instant – I couldn’t help thinking: “Bring it on.”

As in, memories of a now dim, distant and seemingly other-worldly age.

(It’s surprising just how much can fly through your mind in, as I say, a nanosecond.)

I recalled a time when our police were altogether more visible and accessible. 

You just don’t see them now, do you, except for the occasional blues and twos speeding past.  The copper on the beat, sadly, seems to have been consigned to history.

As has the good old friendly and essentially open local police HQ.

The term “something like Fort Knox” rarely fails to spring to mind, for instance, when I pass today’s Falmouth police station at the bottom of Dracaena Avenue.

 

Its typically modern, stupefyingly dull design with fortress appearance and slat-like windows looks anything but welcoming.

 

Ditto, as I understand it, today’s police-press relations. Back in the day, the then local HQ’s doors were always wide open in every sense. 

 

We local reporters would pop in several days a week for friendly chats and collection of info from first the guys on the front desk, then the duty sergeant and then, upstairs, the CID team – among others, Brian Harry, Arthur Govier, Mike Mundy, Chris Woodhead, Reg Davison,

 

Now the general rule for first-stop enquiries is the force’s (sorry, service’s) press office at regional HQ in Exeter.

 

I count myself blessed that I reported at the time I did – not only being able to do the job properly by working with the police but also making a number of long-lasting very good friends in the process.

 

 

PANDEMONIUM AT THE POLICE STATION

 

My little trip down Memory Lane (see above) also brought to mind the day Cornwall was “gripped by alarm, fear and near-panic” (as I reported at the time), prompting a mini-invasion of the local cop shop – in a manner which, again, is scarcely imaginable now.

 

On February 25, 1981, in what was officially described as the county’s worst seismic event for at least 150 years, there were tremors every 20 minutes or so for five hours through to nearly midnight.  

The aftermath from a quake in the Bristol Channel also included two major rumbles each followed by a Concorde-type boom.  

With “many people gathering in the streets,” the Mayor of Penryn, Councillor John Ashwin, said there were so many people crowding into the police station (then in Commercial Road) that “I virtually had to fight my way in.”

He added: “Even people with babies in their arms were arriving at the station to ask what on earth had happened.”  

At the height of the pandemonium, and with no recourse to today’s instant news sources via the internet, Falmouth-Penryn police chief Inspector Alan Sanders was forced to concede: “No-one has the faintest idea what’s happened.  All the services and authorities normally involved in bangs of any kind are asking each other if they know what has happened, and nobody does.”

Pity they couldn’t have googled it, eh!

 

ONE BOOK DUN, ANOTHER BEGUN!

 

My main book project of the past year – SIXTY YEARS A SOCCER BOSS by Melville  Benney – finally got over the line and off to the printers last week.

 

I’m quietly confident that this will be the most successful of all my fund-raisers for Cancer Research to date, given Mel’s vast network of former players (way over a thousand) and friends and associates.

 

In the meantime, I’m now forging ahead with THE TREVOR MEWTON STORY – By Those Who Played For Him.

 

I’ve ghost-written the first 9,000 words for this one and have so far signed six contributors, all big names in the Cornish football world from years gone by – Kevin Miller, John Hodge, Glynn Hooper, George Torrance, David Ball and Jonny Ludlam  - with likely plenty more to come.

 

Trevor, who died in 2017, collected more than 20 trophies as a manager with eight Cornish clubs - principally St Blazey, Newquay and Falmouth – spread over 35 years. 

 

 

TAUTOLOGICAL TREATS

In my Easter Break blog, I poked a bit of fun at the Packet by highlighting a common failing in the media and other forms of communication.  

My old newspaper had reported that “residents . . . have successfully safeguarded much-loved community land” and I posed the question: “how would they have UNsuccessfully safeguarded it?!!”

As I indicated then, this sort of thing can happen at any level, anywhere. 

More recently, for instance, the Daily Telegraph managed to print this howler: “A woman in the Philippines got an UNEXPECTED SURPRISE as a whale shark approached unnoticed and nudged her arm . . . .”

Elsewhere, people and things routinely “rise up” (as opposed to “rise down?”) and there is of course the ubiquitous “added bonus.” My bank even tells me I have “successfully logged out” of online banking.

But my prize for the best/worst example – as in, from someone who really should have known better – came in an edition of The Spectator magazine.

Step forward the retired editor of that magazine and of the Telegraph, plus authorised biographer of Margaret Thatcher, one Charles Moore, Lord Moore of Etchingham.

In the April 11 issue of The Spectator, he wrote: “. . . the American navigator and weapons systems operator whose plane was shot down over Iran was SUCCESSFULLY RESCUED by US special forces . . . ”

Awfully poor show there, Your Lordship!

 

YOU TRULY COULDN’T MAKE THESE UP

There used to be a regular feature entitled “Names That Make You Chuckle” in some long-forgotten newspaper (I think it was possibly the Sunday Express, i.e. in the days when it wasa real newspaper).

 

Now I see my fellow blogger John Marquis has had a bit of fun coming up with a few of his own - principally an old schoolteacher of his by the name of Miss Daft, but also Nita Nutt, a classmate, and a fellow from Nottingham called Thomas Crapper.  

 

For good measure, John also threw in Alexander Fanni, Humphrey Biggass and Conway Twitty.

 

All entirely genuine!

 

Allow me to add in two more from my own memory.  

 

In the days when I used to join a gang of boys playing football morning, afternoon and night in Falmouth’s Kimberley Park, there was a park-keeper there by the name of Mr Plant. 

 

And then – and this takes some believing now, but I have checked it out and I’ve not been dreaming – there was the head of Devon and Cornwall CID back in the ‘60s and ‘70s who went by the name of Detective Chief Superintendent Proven Sharpe!

 

Came the day when there was a big murder case and he and his team were evidently getting nowhere with their early enquiries.  Inevitably, one of us in the Packet news room couldn’t resist remarking: “Well, he’s not proven very sharp so far, has he?” (I know – ger-roan.) 

 

A GHOSTLY VOICE CONCERN

 

I’ve touched once or twice before on the importance of “capturing” the subject’s voice and verbal mannerisms when ghost-writing an autobiography.

 

The big challenge is to strike some sort of balance – making that “voice” as authentic as possible but not at the expense of comprehension and readability.

 

I hope Melville Benney, whose book, Sixty Years A Soccer Boss, is now with the printers, won’t mind my saying that this balance thing was harder than usual with him on account of his stronger-than-average Cornish accent. I might even add that ee de talk proper Cornish, my andsums!

 

But there have been no complaints, and certainly nothing to compare with the friendly ticking-off I once received from an earlier book subject, goal-scoring machine extraordinaire Mark “Rappo” Rapsey.  

 

He instructed me to change one sentence because: “I wouldn’t say something like that, Mike; that’s above my intelligence grade!!” 

 

 

THE WORDY WARMONGER . . . AND THE FEASTY PEACEMAKER

 

Talking of accents (see above), 40 years ago I wrote a piece for my Falmouth Packet “Weekend Break” column that landed me in hot water with a prominent local businessman - only for another one to restore peace with a most gratifying gesture.

 

In my column, I waxed lyrical about the Cornish accent and how it compared most favourably with various others.

 

I included this incendiary line: “As for Midlanders, or Cockneys . . . well, perhaps an orderly clearance of the throat is called for at this stage.” 

 

In the next issue of the Packet, Midlander Falmouth chemist John Rose, RIP, tore into me on the readers’ letters page.

 

“It was saddening once more,” he said, “to read the sarcastic trivia of Mr Truscott in his column.

 

“Over the last few weeks, he has contrived to ridicule every large area of the British Isles and the population thereof by objecting to their pollution of Cornwall (by their mere presence) and their inability to speak the Queen’s English in such a manner as to suit his ears.”

 

Further, he criticised my “rather inane attempts at humour” with regard to the local tourist industry, lecturing me thus: “As a ‘fifth generation Falmothian,’ you should surely be prepared to aid the town you purport to love!”

 

I duly fired back the following week with an extensive list of examples illustrating how “for many years now I have been involved in a large number of activities which come under the heading of promoting Falmouth.” 

 

Clearly, this was a war of words that could not possibly continue. So enter John Pearce, then or thereabouts chairman of Falmouth Chamber of Commerce. 

 

With the help of his wife and business partner Janet, he arranged a lavish dinner party at his home for guests including myself and, wait for it, one John Rose.

 

Would you believe, JR and I got on together very well. We chatted away to our hearts’ content and only in the friendliest fashion – not once referring to, or even hinting at, the bit of bovver that had brought us together! 

 

 

EAT LESS TO EAT MORE . . . BUT DON’T SKIMP ON THE WINE!

 

Still with eating, I read recently that “journalist-turned-bibliotherapist” Toni Jones has read more than a thousand self-help books over the past decade.

 

I can’t quite match that – I’ve just got 900-odd more titles still to go – but I can pass on at least two gold-plated self-help tips that have made a lasting impression on me.

 

One was to be found in the very first book of the genre that I read – Unlimited Power by Anthony Robbins.

 

If you want to eat more, eat less, he advised.

 

By so doing, he explained, you would live longer, and thus end up eating more!

 

Has that worked for me? 

 

I like to think it has . . . or at very least I could come up with the answer I received at the end of an interview I conducted in 1985 with Lishman Wright.  

 

I dubbed him “Falmouth’s sprightliest pensioner” on account of his daily sea-swimming all year round at 90.

 

I asked him if his icy dips had been the key factor in reaching such a grand old age. 

 

Quick as a flash, he replied: “Well, they certainly haven’t stopped me, have they?!”

 

Then there was the very unscientific tip passed on to me by my principal PR photographer, Phil Monckton, of Penzance.

 

His doctor once told him: “Unofficially, the best way to stay well is to drink two glasses of red wine every day for six days a week, with a break on the seventh!”

 

Sounded like a hic of a good idea then and it still does!

 

LIGHT SLEEPER AVOIDS LIGHTHOUSE INTRUSION  

A thoroughly refreshing two days of clifftop-walking down Lizard way (and fine dining) last month did the trick, at least temporarily, for this tired old hack.  

Slept like a log, too, at the Mullion Cove Hotel . . .  which might not have been so easy if I’d stayed at one of the other hotels I had looked at.

I loved this early warning on the Housel Bay’s website: “Please note, we are in very close proximity to the wonderful landmark of the Lizard Lighthouse, which is operational. 

“However, we cannot control the intensity of its light and under certain weather conditions the fog horn may additionally sound. We want to inform you in advance so that it does not come as a surprise during your stay.”

I’m a light sleeper, so their additional service could have come in handy.  As their website advised: “We do have earplugs available at Reception if you feel you may need them.”

Bet you’ve not seen anything like that before in a hotel!

 

LUCKY ESCAPE FOR TOWN BAND – AND THEIR CORNET – IN BOMBING RAID

My Mullion Cove reading included a rare copy of “When Bombs Fell – The Air Raids On Cornwall,” by Phyllis M Rowe and Ivan Rabey, purchased the previous day at  Bookmark, Natasha Berks’ second hand bookshop in Falmouth.

As comprehensive records of its title matter go, I guess it could well be the definitive works.

As well as the blow-by-blow record of all those raids, it also contains many eye witness accounts and anecdotes. 

The latter included a lucky escape for members of Redruth Town Band and the unlikely survival of one of their instruments.

It began during the evening of December 15, 1941, when four bombs fell around Gregg’s Yard and Sea View Road, damaging some 300 houses and injuring ten people.

The Redruth Town Band Room was completely demolished, but as luck would have it the building was unoccupied as band practice had been cancelled for that night.

Their instruments were not so lucky, although at least one of them – a “rather battered” cornet – lived on, in a manner of speaking.

It had been one of a job lot of second hand instruments purchased for the band’s learner section.  After the bombing raid, it was later discovered jammed in the masonry at the top of Redruth’s clock tower.  

Apparently, it went on to be “displayed in a glass cabinet in the lounge of the Seven Stars at Stithians, the proud possession of the landlord, the late Mr Leslie Williams.”

Question: is it still there, I wonder? (“The pub has been approached for comment.”)

 

WHEN CHAR-A-BANCS RULED THE ROAD!

While in Tasha’s shop, I also helped myself to a very old Falmouth holiday guide.

It was undated and contained no adverts (with prices), so clues to its age were strictly limited.  

However, one such was this bit of info about local public transport services: “During the seasons, char-a-bancs run to Perranporth, Newquay, Tintagel, Penzance, Land’s End, The Lizard and Mullion.”

So my question here is: how many of you, if any, can remember the sight of those char-a-bancs?! 

(Not that I was around at the time, but I am reliably informed that they were largely replaced by “motor buses” in the 1920s.)  

 

DID YOU KNOW THAT . . .  

. . . talking of rugby (as we were), apparently a try is so-called because, in the sport's early days, simply getting the ball over the goal line and touching it down did not actually award any points on its own. 

Instead, it merely gave the attacking team the opportunity - or "try" - to attempt a kick at goal to score points.

And the ‘last man swimming’ . . . 

In October 1984, Falmouth’s Green Lawns Hotel (now Merchants Manor) opened its leisure complex and I was one of its founder members.

I’ve been a member ever since – almost, but not quite, going there every day for a swim.

And I know for a fact that I’m the only remaining person with that unbroken record of membership since it opened.

Phwargh. Makes yer fink, dunnit!

 

And that, indeed, is all for now, folks.

I’ll be back with my Autumn Break around

End-September/early October (give or take).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

AND WE’RE OFF!

The finish line is looming into sight with my current charity fund-raising book project and my next one has just begun in earnest. 

MELVILLE BENNEY, 60 years a football manager and a truly remarkable representative of the grass roots game, will need no introduction to many of you. 

Ditto TREVOR MEWTON, RIP, one of the all-time greatest names in the world of Cornish football. 

The plan with Melville is to launch his book with a big reunion night at Falmouth Town’s Bickland Park clubhouse, probably around mid to late summer. 

Trevor’s book will tell his story through the memories of various players in his teams, which most notably included St Blazey, Newquay and Falmouth. This book could well take two years rather than my normal one, but you never know! 

 

EASTER BREAK

Life’s been a bit of a struggle this past quarter, what with Janet in hospital and this boy getting no younger.

So, before I go any further, a huge thank-you to all those of you who asked after my wife and offered to help in any way.  As the saying goes, you get to know who your true friends are at such times.

As another saying has it, the show must go on, of course. So here I am with my promised Easter blog, if not in quite the manner anticipated, plus continuing book activity, as in ghost-writing and publishing in aid of Cancer Research. (Keeps me sane, as I tell myself.)  See BOOKS, BOOKS AND MORE BOOKS below.

 

ARTISTIC LICENCE?

Another way of keeping sane - or when I get the chance, bearing in mind the paramount need for an all-decks-cleared three-hour session, minimum – is with my art.

I was bemoaning the lack of such opportunities during a chat with my teacher and good friend Jeanni Grant-Nelson.

It prompted a little play with her ChatGPT thingie and she came up with this version of me – the me that no-one, myself included, has ever seen before, or is ever likely to!

Well, at least they – Jeanni and ChatGPT – got my face right! 

 

Could US Take Over Littl’ Ole UK?

 

In a remarkably short space of time, the once too-far-fetched-for-words has become the commonplace, thanks to the daily deeds and comments of President Trump.

 

Not least among these have been his designs and actions in the field of land-grabbing – Venezuela, Cuba, Greenland, Panama Canal, Gaza Strip . . . 

 

Where and what next, you might reasonably ask?

 

How about littl’ ole UK?

 

Nah?

 

Well, there is a precedent, of sorts.

 

(In fiction, that is.)

 

Daphne du Maurier fans will recall her final novel, Rule Britannia, published in 1972.  

 

It portrays a fictional near-future where a bankrupt UK, having left the Common Market, wakes up one morning to find it has been on the receiving end of a “friendly” invasion by the United States.

 

I bought it many years ago and found it a compelling read, especially with its focus on the resultant unrest in Cornwall. 

 

At its heart is the tiny Cornish village of Poldrea, where resistance builds after the discovery one morning of American  aeroplanes overhead, trigger-happy US marines marching across the fields, and an American aircraft carrier, which is later blown up, in the bay.

 

Power, initially cut off, is restored and the Prime Minister goes on TV to announce that the US and UK have joined together as a single nation – USUK.  

 

This was, in fact, the final novel by Daphne, the prolific best-selling writer who spent most of her life in the Duchy.

 

Perhaps the US “invasion” here will remain the stuff of fiction, but “bankrupt Britain” certainly sounds familiar, doesn’t it!

 

WHAT A HOOT – SPOT THE ‘OWLS’

As long-term readers of my blog may just have noticed, I never tire of walking around Falmouth’s Pendennis headland. And that, mercifully, is something else I’ve managed to keep up.    

I could do it all day long, I sometimes say (with tongue only partially in cheek). There’s so much variety – the ships and boats, the weather, the ever-changing sea conditions and, not least, all the birds.

To that latter category, I have recently noticed an intriguing addition. Here it is:--

Not only this one, but I suspect there may well be more scattered in trees elsewhere, having since also noticed one nearer home, in the Dell (beneath the “Falmouth Town” railway halt).

Anyone recognise the species? Clearly a member of the owl family, it would seem. Or perhaps more likely a cunning cut-out creation emerging from our uni community . . . 

 

 

LANDING A SCOOP – AND DAD’S DISAPPROVAL

 

Shook hands the other day with a new arrival in one of the Ministry of Defence houses at the bottom of our road.

 

Turned out he was a young Royal Navy pilot stationed at Culdrose.

 

We got talking and it took me back to my very earliest reporting days – when I was still a trainee, in fact, on the Packet.

 

That’s almost 60 years ago now and I’ve long since forgotten the exact details, but I recalled a very proud moment when I secured an exclusive interview, around breakfast time one morning, with a Culdrose pilot who had just landed after a dramatic rescue incident.  

 

Barely 19, I was still living at home with my parents, and my Dad was listening in from another room with the door ajar.

 

The phone interview went really well, with some great quotes, and I was dead chuffed when it concluded.

 

But . . . “Just a couple of points there, lad,” said my Dad, who (I’m so grateful now) was my sternest critic. “You didn’t thank that pilot anywhere near sufficiently at the end.”

 

And even worse was to follow: “I’m very aware that our phone bill has increased substantially of late on account of your use of it for the Packet. I think it’s time you started to pay a bit towards it, don’t you?“

 

Well, that took the wind out of my sails, I can tell you.

And of course I didn’t dare tell him I’d already been pocketing a fair sum by way of Packet expenses for home phone use that I had somehow forgotten to pass on to the Old Boy! 

 

WHEN IT WAS ‘GOOD TO TALK’ (FOR REAL)

Talking of Culdrose, Sue Bradbury, one-time public relations officer there, once told me a delightful tale about a “very surreal” moment back in the day when live voices over phone lines still dominated communications.  

“The phone never seemed to stop ringing,” she said.  “Making and receiving calls was the way I got things done.

 

“When there was a search and rescue going on, I could spend endless hours answering calls from across the world whilst also keeping myself updated on what was happening.”

 

That led to her very surreal moment . . . 

 

“I was bleeped at home with news of yet another big story and, in the ensuing journalistic scramble for information, ended up being interviewed live on one of the main national news channels.

 

“My television was on at the time, so I could see the presenter picking up his phone, knowing that it was me on the end of the line!”

 

Life and technology had moved on swiftly since then, as Sue acknowledged:  “There are no phones visible on a newscaster’s desk now, just a computer, and instead of talking to people all day long most of us are glued to a screen tapping out message after message.”

 

 

A RIGHT ROYAL DUMBING-DOWN?

 

The new Archbishop of Canterbury took selfies with worshippers last month and insisted: “Just call me Sarah.” What next, then, in the great dumbing down of everything sacred? “Just call me Charlie” –The King?

 

OH DEAR, SEEMS THERE REALLY IS NOTHING NEW UNDER THE SUN  

My eye was caught the other week by a Packet headline reporting trouble at Falmouth’s Prince of Wales Pier.

Fresh concerns had been raised over “foul language, intimidation and long-running disputes on Falmouth’s waterfront, as police warn trouble this season will not be tolerated.”

Here we go yet again, I thought – recalling all too clearly some of the Pier aggro that occurred very early in my Packet trainee reporter days – and which, in various forms but usually involving rival boat owners, has regularly returned down the decades since.

Certainly, it was an enduring feature of waterfront life in the late 1960s and early 1970s, as I recalled in one of my books covering that period:

In August, 1967, boatmen touting for custom were ordered by police to leave the Pier approaches after complaints from visitors that they were being pestered and annoyed. 

This was the first time police action had been necessary since the introduction of a new borough by-law prohibiting touting or soliciting for custom.  

Up to 13 boatmen had been observed “importuning” passengers in the vicinity in previous weeks.  

Police officers went to the pier and ordered them to stop, warning of serious consequences if they continued to annoy visitors.  Later a police sergeant told all the boat operators that they would lose their permits to run trips from the pier if touting were resumed.  

Chief Inspector Trevor Lewis said both Falmouth Borough Council and the police had received numerous complaints from the public about touting and they now had no alternative but to see that the by-law was enforced.  

“The police will have no compunction about prosecuting future offenders,” he added. “Both the boatmen and their employers have had fair warning.”

When I returned to my homeland in 1975 after four years with the Liverpool daily newspapers, one of my first stories was about more Pier aggro.

And I remember Captain John Whitehouse, Carrick District Council’s maritime officer, telling me then as he surveyed another ugly scene: “Welcome back, Mike.  As you can see, nothing has changed here, and I doubt that it ever will!”

Seems he wasn’t wrong . . .  

OH THE AGONY

You know you’re getting older when . . . . you’re no longer king of the road, or rather the footpath.   

 

Nobody, but nobody, used to overtake me during my walks.  I’m talking walkers, obvs, not runners/cyclists/motorists.

 

But now, increasingly over the past year or so, I’ve had the somewhat startling experience of a fellow human suddenly beside me along the way and slowly forging ahead. (It wouldn’t be so bad if they could just cough or clear their throats as they approach me.)

 

And the really concerning thing has been that I wasn’t aware that I was walking any more slowly than I used to. Perhaps my legs have grown shorter . . . 

 

AND THE IRONY

 

When time has to be spent waiting in A&E or doctor’s surgeries, or when you’re lying awake for ages in the middle of the night, you get to do a lot more reading.

 

Or I have done anyway. Books, newspaper supplements, magazines, even The Spectator, a reading luxury I never thought I’d have the time for.

 

Trouble is, I find the (cynical) journalist in me still automatically resisting anything that can be identified as an advertising puff masquerading as editorial.  

 

Any big-name feature – profile piece – for instance will almost always have a footnote flagging up his/her latest book, film/TV programme or whatever. Or it’ll even hit you in the face with a shameless plug in the opening paragraphs.

 

Any self-respecting journalist will have much the same attitude towards anything smacking of free advertising – even though, in the same breath so to speak, they will always seek and expect all manner of assistance from PR people when it suits.

 

Which makes it all a bit ironic in my case, considering it is fully 40 years ago now that I quit as a journalist and climbed over the fence . . . to begin just short of 30 years as a PR man!

 

AND THE SHAME – OUT-SCOOPED ON MY OWN DOORSTEP

 

I’ll keep him anonymous to spare his blushes, but I’ll never forget the true tale of how a contemporary of mine, freshly qualified as a reporter, spectacularly missed a big story right on his own doorstep.

 

He was only a week or so into his new post with one of the Birmingham daily newspapers when he turned up for duty one morning, ready to start from scratch in the hunt for fresh news.

 

His editor was very surprised to see that Matey had nothing of his own to offer. It turned out, you see, that his landlady had been MURDERED  overnight, a fact already picked up by a colleague during that day’s first round of calls to the emergency services.

 

(In fairness, Matey had come straight into the office after spending the night away from his digs.)

 

Something similar, sort of, happened to me in February this year. It was on a Thursday afternoon when a young grey seal was dramatically rescued after becoming entangled in 30 metres of fishing net.

 

It took fully four days before the Falmouth Packet carried an online  report on the event and it was only two days earlier that I had learnt of it – when a prominent report, together with pic, appeared in the Daily Telegraph.

 

Thing is, the drama took place on Gyllyngvase Beach – which I visit or pass virtually every day of the year and which is all of eight minutes’ walk from my home!

 

As my younger daughter Lisa told me: “The journalist in you is clearly no more!”

PEOPLE-WATCHER’S PARADISE

In more ways than one, as you can imagine, I have sorely missed my Lisa these past two months.

But she returned yesterday from her two months in Oz and will no doubt be hauling me back into the sea at Gylly any morning now. The last time I managed it on my own – boring – was early January.

I love the dawn swim routine – from spring through to late autumn – so here’s a reminder of what it’s all about, with one of the favourites from my blog archive.  It was first published in September, 2024:-- 

A few minutes before eight o’clock on a Sunday morning, and if you thought it would still be all quiet on Gyllyngvase, Falmouth’s main beach, you’d better think again! 

 

It’s already full of interest and activity in all directions.

 

This daily dawn dip business, preferably with my oh-so-keen daughter Lisa, is about so much more than the mere swimming bit, lush though that was again this morning.

 

The trick is to take all the time in the world with the before and after – especially the after, just switching off for a while, in no rush to get changed and leave, instead indulging in a spell of people-watching all around you.

 

For starters, there are already two well-subscribed keep-fit classes under way, with stretches and jerks and press-ups and back-and-forth runs and everyone, even the notably over-weight participants, giving it their sweaty all. 

 

Closer to self, the swimmers arrive and depart, and the age range is big.

 

There are the “wrinklies” (oops, that’s me, too, these days – keep forgetting that) and the enviably lithe and muscular young ‘uns. 

 

Half a dozen of the latter – perhaps part of a visiting rugby team? – charge into the sea. And, just a little surprisingly, come out of it again in double-quick time! 

 

Ditto the young lady in the skimpy bikini who, I reckon, must have lasted all of 30 seconds fully immersed before shooting back out – while her partner, well out of his depth, looked on in barely contained glee.

 

Apart from these quick departures, I count up to 20 “regulars” in the sea at any one time during my Gylly stay.

 

Observers include the little infant – can’t be much more than a year old – who looks on from just above the water’s edge, with his protective mum right behind him.

 

All around there is much laughter and chatter – and barking as any number of dogs and their owners have their own daily beach outing.

 

One young man, alas, comes out of the sea clutching his head, complaining that it’s aching and he thinks he may have dived too deep.

 

Then, fully clothed once more and with my bag packed, tiz time for me to head back home. Cue hot shower and coffee, bickies and Sunday papers. (That’s right, for as long as they’re still printing, I will always prefer them to the screen variety!)

 

As I leave Gylly, I look back and hope matey with the headache will be okay – he’s busy now consulting a little group of fellow swimmers.

 

And I’m also feeling sorry for the elderly lady, still in her dry robe, who has been standing like a statue in the middle of the beach for at least the last 20 minutes.

 

I’m thinking that maybe she’s been “stood up” by a fellow swimmer – or perhaps she, too, has simply been people-watching . . .  

 

WOT, NO LITTER?

And for a more recent people-watch, I give you Brian, retired hotel owner turned champion local litter-picker-upper.

He is to be seen every morning, armed with grabber stick and bag, doing his pubic-duty stint along Falmouth seafront.

But when I saw him the other day, I couldn’t help noticing his look of concern as he surveyed the scene at the entrance to Gyllyngvase Beach and along the adjacent footpaths.

Uniquely, so far as the eye could see, it was a litter-free zone and he had yet to grab his first scrap of refuse.

“Perhaps you’ve got a rival,” I suggested.

“GOOD!” he replied.

Somehow I don’t reckon that will last, though!

 

BOOKS, BOOKS AND MORE BOOKS

 

For my final five years of paid working life, I created and ran the Golden Replay Biographies service, ghost-writing and publishing 30 life-story books.

 

And I’ve continued the limited-edition books biz, as a Cancer Research fund-raiser, long into my retirement.  Following on from last year’s main project – Andy Street’s Streets Ahead, which netted £2,500 - I’m nearly there now with my latest Cornish football memoir, for Melville Benney.

 

 

While Andy was a serial trophy winner and long-serving captain of Cornwall, Mel has clocked up the remarkable record of 60 unbroken years as a football manager (at grass roots level), and he’s still going! 

 

That book is well on schedule for launch this summer and two more are now under way – Mark “Rappo” Rapsey’s sequel, Rappo’s World Of Football Fun, and another one that is still under wraps for the moment but will be my most ambitious, and hopefully most successful, yet.  Watch this space for Project X!

 

 

How This Writer’s Life Could END At 40!

 

Subject to one or two ifs and buts, it’s entirely possible that Project X, above, could turn out to be the 40^th and final book in my collection of ghost-written life stories.

 

This one is likely to be a two-year project, rather than one, and when it hits the light of day I won’t be far short of my 80^th birthday.

 

Time then, perhaps, to call it a day and take life just a little more easily?  

 

No promises, mind, but if that does turn out to be the case, I shall take with me one thought in particular borne of those 40 autobiographies and prior to that so many years of writing as a journalist and PR man.

 

Hand on heart, I am more convinced than ever that THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A BORING PERSON!

 

Came perilously close with one of my Golden Replay clients, mind you! Had to work extra hard to draw her out. Now that DID make her interesting!

 

 

SOME FINAL THOUGHTS . . . 

 

Falmouth’s Castle Beach Café was due to re-open today after its winter break and at the last count, i.e. a few hours ago, it was all looking good on the sand front. That is, there is currently plenty of it, which was emphatically not the case, uniquely in my memory, last summer.

 

Here’s hoping it will stay that way, with no late spring gales to alter the natural order of things. Keep that “Sand This Way” direction board, pointing away from the “beach,” under lock and key, Emily!

 

****

 

It was the breaking news I never wanted to see . . . the demise of the historic packet ship emblem in the Falmouth Packet masthead, to be replaced by a brightly coloured packet of crisps.  

 

It had me tearing my hair out/ shedding gallons of tears/ losing the will to live for fully ten seconds . . . until I realised the date: Wednesday, April 1!

 

***

 

You know you’re getting older when . . . you agree with a lifelong friend that whenever one of you starts a tale you’ve told many times before the other will say “DING!”

 

****

 

Was I dreaming or did I really hear, in the news on Monday this week, You-Know-Who coming out with this Quote Of The Millennium: “We keep negotiating with people and then we have to blow them up.” 

 

****

 

Admittedly it’s a common failing, not just in the professional media, but the Packet was at it again last month, with its front page lead story kicking off with “Residents . . . .have successfully safeguarded much-loved community land . . . “  Question: how would they have UNsuccessfully safeguarded it?!!

 

****

 

There’s been a lively readers’ correspondence in the Daily Telegraph of late concerning our national dish, the good old Cornish pasty. How’s about this offering from a London reader, recalling one way of doing it in days gone by, by a farmer’s wife:

 

“One end contained ‘teddies (potatoes), turnips puddin’ and flesh,’ the other stewed apple. On delivery, she would hand the pasties out, then cover each one with home-made clotted cream!” 

 

 

 

THAT’S ALL FOR NOW, FOLKS.

 

I will return to the blogosphere

with my Summer Break. Watch

out for it in July (ish).