And there's more of Wednesday.... so busy down here at the moment!
Went over to see my Grandmother on the way to more socialising. Not a great deal to report there, dropped off some guff I'd borrowed some time ago and that was cluttering up my shed. In return she gave me more guff, another boxful of my late grandfathers's specialist woodworking tools that I've got no idea how to use. Apparently he was a bit of a dab hand at woodworking when he was a youngster; he was offered a scholarship but my great grandfather refused to pay for it, preferring to get him a job on a farm instead... his younger brother got all the breaks, going in to mechanics. Generally a far less likeable bloke, was always the favorate. Me, I'd have been fizzing at that if it had happened to me, but my grandfather clearly wasn't the type to brood.
Must have been weird family stuff day... I popped over to my old shooting club in the evening to say hello to the chaps and maybe do a bit of leadslinging. Someone mentioned in conversation that the range they're now using was set up for the Home Guard during the war years... my grandfather would have been in that platoon, as he was in a reserved occupation, couldn't be called up and joined the Local Defence Volunteers, later the HG when they formed. He was a support weapons gunner, Vickers water cooled machine gun and Spigot mortar; I've always flattered myself that it's where I get it from. Felt odd to think that we were both battering the same range, sixty years apart.
Was very good to see the chaps from the shooting club again. I'd brought my rifles down; I still shoot up north but very infrequently now; my club up there lacks the spirit and buzz of that place, even in their reduced circumstances, post Dunblane. I started shooting in '92 with handguns and I still miss 'em; modern gallery rifle as it's known is just not as absorbing as the disciplines I shot a lot of in those five years. I miss the shooting I did then, I especially miss my .357 Smith and Wesson revolver that had to be surrendered at the time, I put thousands upon thousands of shots through that pistol and if I think about it can still remember it's weight and the way it balanced; as with all things nowadays, life is more complicated, more expensive and less fun. I don't get nearly as much range time as I should up north, partially through work, partially apathy and partially the fact that the aforementioned lack of buzz in my club - my god, they've only just discovered postal leagues, we were doing those 14 years ago - but I still cracked in a lot of quite reasonable cards, and a few VERY good ones. You could say it's like riding a bike, but then that'd be putting down talent ;o). I was a decent enough shot with pistol when I was there; my coach said at the time* that if I'd have worked on it, I could have been county standard or better, but after the handgun ban took to rifles like a duck to water. First time I shot competition with them, I was entered as a decent enough Class C competitor and with a borrowed rifle, came within one point of stuffing all the class A shooters and taking the club championship, which wasn't bad considering there were some VERY good guys there who'd shot at international level.
*He was a WWII veteran of the Tunisian campaign. He also said one day as I wandered downrange to change my target board while wearing an army surplus jacket that if you gave me a big cigar, I'd do a pretty good inpersonation of a Panzer III tank....
As an aside, while I was there I had a very interesting conversation with a guy who's a winchman on the search and rescue choppers at the airbase up the road. He'd just been involved with pulling a German guy out of the drink who'd ditched his twin engined aircraft off the coast. The news reports all say the plane ran out of fuel approaching Clacton beacon, but the jury's out as to whether that's the case (unlikely, experienced pilot), whether there was a mechanical problem, or fuel contamination. Apparently, the joke going around SAR circles at the moment is that the German lad could at least have got his grandad to give him a hand with his fuel calculations, he'd at least have made Coventry....
Would have liked to have stayed longer, that was the most enjoyable shooting I've done in the last year or so and I would have liked to have stayed until my ammunition ran out, but duty called elsewhere... Left with a promise not to leave it three years before I come down again and scuttled off into town, to pick up my mate JH who'd arranged my guest ticket for the night's bangery and zoomed off at a rate of knots to Kev Towers, "meeting up for the first night at the beer festival for the use of" and the three of us headed townwards courtesy of Kev's Dad Taxi's. Waved my CAMRA membership card at the entrance for my freebie in, procured my commemorative festival glass and beer cards (you buy one of these for a fiver and they mark off the squares as you buy beer, cuts out the cash handling at the bars and makes it quicker and simpler), and got stuck in. Ran into Hairy Martin which is not especially pleasant, but then ran into my good buds Sarge, Fuhrer and Nick the Nice which was more pleasant - enjoyed jolly sociable boozy company. Mrs Sarge also turned up, the lovely Sonja, not seen her for a year or so jollification was considerable. The theme this year is "War of the Roses, beers from Yorkshire and Lancashire", so it's a bit of a busman's holiday for me; I decided to treat night #01 as a homage to the fine Yorkiebeer I've been glugging and have developed considerable appreciation for, for the last 18 months or so. A real sod of life at the moment is that things in Lincolnshire are freewheeling somewhat, you'd think from the tone of this journal that a move back south would be the logical thing to do and in many ways you'd be right, but apart from the fact that I'd need to sell several major organs on the black market to actually be able to afford a property down here at the moment (prices for anything other than the complete scuzzbucket I used to live in start at £200,000... insane) I've developed my existing appreciation of all things Yorkshire to a love that I'm reluctant to shed. It feels like Suffolk just with worse weather and sheep. Anyway, digressing again.
Ale was glugged in goodly quantity, was nice to have Hambletons Nightmare in something other than bottled format for a change, highlight of the night was a local one, Mighty Oak's "Saxon Strong" A T-shirt was procured for the weekend ("Pub Fiction", if you're interested. If you want to see it, you'll have to come and drink beer with me on Saturday. Ha!), and a mad dash to the bar was made to get a pint of something dark and scary called Fernandes Double Six when they called last orders way before I was ready to stop.
Went over to see my Grandmother on the way to more socialising. Not a great deal to report there, dropped off some guff I'd borrowed some time ago and that was cluttering up my shed. In return she gave me more guff, another boxful of my late grandfathers's specialist woodworking tools that I've got no idea how to use. Apparently he was a bit of a dab hand at woodworking when he was a youngster; he was offered a scholarship but my great grandfather refused to pay for it, preferring to get him a job on a farm instead... his younger brother got all the breaks, going in to mechanics. Generally a far less likeable bloke, was always the favorate. Me, I'd have been fizzing at that if it had happened to me, but my grandfather clearly wasn't the type to brood.
Must have been weird family stuff day... I popped over to my old shooting club in the evening to say hello to the chaps and maybe do a bit of leadslinging. Someone mentioned in conversation that the range they're now using was set up for the Home Guard during the war years... my grandfather would have been in that platoon, as he was in a reserved occupation, couldn't be called up and joined the Local Defence Volunteers, later the HG when they formed. He was a support weapons gunner, Vickers water cooled machine gun and Spigot mortar; I've always flattered myself that it's where I get it from. Felt odd to think that we were both battering the same range, sixty years apart.
Was very good to see the chaps from the shooting club again. I'd brought my rifles down; I still shoot up north but very infrequently now; my club up there lacks the spirit and buzz of that place, even in their reduced circumstances, post Dunblane. I started shooting in '92 with handguns and I still miss 'em; modern gallery rifle as it's known is just not as absorbing as the disciplines I shot a lot of in those five years. I miss the shooting I did then, I especially miss my .357 Smith and Wesson revolver that had to be surrendered at the time, I put thousands upon thousands of shots through that pistol and if I think about it can still remember it's weight and the way it balanced; as with all things nowadays, life is more complicated, more expensive and less fun. I don't get nearly as much range time as I should up north, partially through work, partially apathy and partially the fact that the aforementioned lack of buzz in my club - my god, they've only just discovered postal leagues, we were doing those 14 years ago - but I still cracked in a lot of quite reasonable cards, and a few VERY good ones. You could say it's like riding a bike, but then that'd be putting down talent ;o). I was a decent enough shot with pistol when I was there; my coach said at the time* that if I'd have worked on it, I could have been county standard or better, but after the handgun ban took to rifles like a duck to water. First time I shot competition with them, I was entered as a decent enough Class C competitor and with a borrowed rifle, came within one point of stuffing all the class A shooters and taking the club championship, which wasn't bad considering there were some VERY good guys there who'd shot at international level.
*He was a WWII veteran of the Tunisian campaign. He also said one day as I wandered downrange to change my target board while wearing an army surplus jacket that if you gave me a big cigar, I'd do a pretty good inpersonation of a Panzer III tank....
As an aside, while I was there I had a very interesting conversation with a guy who's a winchman on the search and rescue choppers at the airbase up the road. He'd just been involved with pulling a German guy out of the drink who'd ditched his twin engined aircraft off the coast. The news reports all say the plane ran out of fuel approaching Clacton beacon, but the jury's out as to whether that's the case (unlikely, experienced pilot), whether there was a mechanical problem, or fuel contamination. Apparently, the joke going around SAR circles at the moment is that the German lad could at least have got his grandad to give him a hand with his fuel calculations, he'd at least have made Coventry....
Would have liked to have stayed longer, that was the most enjoyable shooting I've done in the last year or so and I would have liked to have stayed until my ammunition ran out, but duty called elsewhere... Left with a promise not to leave it three years before I come down again and scuttled off into town, to pick up my mate JH who'd arranged my guest ticket for the night's bangery and zoomed off at a rate of knots to Kev Towers, "meeting up for the first night at the beer festival for the use of" and the three of us headed townwards courtesy of Kev's Dad Taxi's. Waved my CAMRA membership card at the entrance for my freebie in, procured my commemorative festival glass and beer cards (you buy one of these for a fiver and they mark off the squares as you buy beer, cuts out the cash handling at the bars and makes it quicker and simpler), and got stuck in. Ran into Hairy Martin which is not especially pleasant, but then ran into my good buds Sarge, Fuhrer and Nick the Nice which was more pleasant - enjoyed jolly sociable boozy company. Mrs Sarge also turned up, the lovely Sonja, not seen her for a year or so jollification was considerable. The theme this year is "War of the Roses, beers from Yorkshire and Lancashire", so it's a bit of a busman's holiday for me; I decided to treat night #01 as a homage to the fine Yorkiebeer I've been glugging and have developed considerable appreciation for, for the last 18 months or so. A real sod of life at the moment is that things in Lincolnshire are freewheeling somewhat, you'd think from the tone of this journal that a move back south would be the logical thing to do and in many ways you'd be right, but apart from the fact that I'd need to sell several major organs on the black market to actually be able to afford a property down here at the moment (prices for anything other than the complete scuzzbucket I used to live in start at £200,000... insane) I've developed my existing appreciation of all things Yorkshire to a love that I'm reluctant to shed. It feels like Suffolk just with worse weather and sheep. Anyway, digressing again.
Ale was glugged in goodly quantity, was nice to have Hambletons Nightmare in something other than bottled format for a change, highlight of the night was a local one, Mighty Oak's "Saxon Strong" A T-shirt was procured for the weekend ("Pub Fiction", if you're interested. If you want to see it, you'll have to come and drink beer with me on Saturday. Ha!), and a mad dash to the bar was made to get a pint of something dark and scary called Fernandes Double Six when they called last orders way before I was ready to stop.
posted by Fred the Singing Bandit at 8:45 am
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