Civvies. Don't like 'em.

…is the right answer…

Some of the powers-that-were were gunning for a Station Officer, on the white watch. Gunning for him so much that they charged him for the loss of a couple of torches while he was on leave. Apparently he’d failed to inspire the jobsworth synapses of his watch sufficiently for them to think counting torches was…well Pete, what’s the best job you’ve ever had?

So he was sat down, with the rest of us, facing a panel, after a sub-optimal outcome. A perceived sub-optimal outcome, actually. The panel consisted of two officers and two civvies.[1]

We called them civvies as a mark of disrespect. The term was slowly being erased by the pc vocabulary police. Members of the public, which probably became customers, became clients like firemen are social workers or something. The simple fact is, unless you’ve crawled around at three in the morning with your arse half alight and your ears beginning to crisp every time you lift your head a few inches from floor level, you don’t qualify for an opinion. Sorry to be brutally frank and all that, but shut up, wind your neck in, and go back to your desk where you belong.

Churchill said it was far better to get things 85% right, on time, then have a perfect solution when it’s too late.

I think when someone gets their job 95% right, gnawing away ay the other 5% is an act of madness. So, they started in on him, and this is what he said:

“Am I the senior station officer, in the area, on the white watch?”

“Yes”

“So, if you’re unhappy with me, do something about it, otherwise, I did what I thought was right using all the experience and knowledge I have.”

With that, he got up and walked away. The right answer.

Red sky at night…

…the scoreboard’s shite.

When they finally got it working, the news wasn’t so good.

A beautiful sky behind the floodlights.

That's the scoreboard, just left of centre, with the bad news.

Hampshire played well, and MM and I had a good evening, standing in the line of fire. We were right at cow corner, where T20 bombardment tends to be pretty frequent. We found that we don’t do sympathy. We don’t even understand it. We’re without it, don’t comprehend. A bloke about ten feet to our right wore one. A big high six, straight on the head. There was that mobilisation of people desperate to help you get when things like that happen. Ice was fetched. A bar towel. St John’s people were called by the tannoy.

After a while, his wife or daughter had been holding the towel on his head for some time, I said:

“Jesus, she must be bored of that by now.”

“He should’ve been watching the ball.” MM said.

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[1] Civilians were you lot. Non-firemen. Civvies were non-firemen who wanted to get involved in what we did and how we did it. Politicians are classic civvies.