The Potravini Bench

Shortly after my father, Joseph Anthony Gerard Morrissey, passed away in 2009, I discovered several handwritten diary entries on loose A4 sheets. He had already typed up and published many other entries on a Slovakian website, which is unfortunately no longer online. 

I do not know who wrote these pages or how to trace the author, 

so I am sharing them here to finish what he started.

If you have any information about these entries or recognise who might have written them, 

please get in touch by leaving a message or sending an email.

Enjoy reading.

The Potravini Bench

There is a small village General Store at the bottom of the three-kilometre lane from our village to the parent village of Hronská Dúbrava. In front of its steps is a dilapidated bench, lurching under a bedraggled conifer. In front of the bench are two used car tyres which, once upon a time, must have contained flowers. However, currently they contain nothing but assorted weeds and a million-or-so cigarette butts. These giant vehicular ashtrays are surrounded by dust in the summer and a quagmire of mud in the winter. In clement weather, the bench is occupied by a small congregation of out-of-work drunks, who gather there with their dogs, fags, and the cheapest bottled beer in the village. In our village, you can buy a bottle of beer, drink it outside, and return the bottle for the deposit, which is put down on the next bottle. Of course, the beer is supplemented by surreptitious bottles of home-distilled Slivo.  

Our village drunk and executive is Jay, a regular. The most regular regular. The bench has the inestimable advantage of being adjacent both to the nearest beer for Jay and, just a few metres away, the village graveyard, where his late partner lies buried. So Jay can kill two birds with one stone—or should I say, two kidneys with one beer. He can deposit an armful of half-dead flowers higgledy-piggledy on the grave and guzzle a bellyful of beer at the same time.

By some miracle, Jay gets a 4,000 Koruna pension. This after a lifetime's non-contribution to any known, or unknown, pension scheme. Jay had, on the death of his partner, discovered religion, but not the attributes that go with it, like sobriety; he asserts to all and sundry that his undeserved pension is a blessing from God to his deserving, 'returning to the fold' sheep. He has got the Bible-thumping, self-justifying jargon of the born-again down to a tee.  

He ought to run for the American presidency: his ignorance, stupidity, and incompetence, together with his cunning, should have him in with a good chance. His main handicap is that he can speak in complete, syntactically correct sentences when not drunk. It is clear to the rest of us that his pension is the result of some monumental, post-communist, bureaucratic cock-up. Not divine intervention.  

Dog Adoption, Dúbrava Style; or, The Shanghaiing of a neighbour by the village Press Gang

Shortly after my father, Joseph Anthony Gerard Morrissey, passed away in 2009, I discovered several handwritten diary entries on loose A4 sheets. He had already typed up and published many other entries on a Slovakian website, which is unfortunately no longer online. 

I do not know who wrote these pages or how to trace the author, 

so I am sharing them here to finish what he started.

If you have any information about these entries or recognise who might have written them, 

please get in touch by leaving a message or sending an email.

Enjoy reading.

Dog Adoption, Dubrava Style; or, The Shanghaiing of a neighbour by the village Press Gang

I have previously mentioned that after virtually every Christmas, one or two dogs are abandoned in the snow on the lane to our village. Their ex-owners, tiring of their Christmas pets, having no interest in the long-term responsibility of owning and training a puppy, and with their children back at school, simply drive up to our village and unceremoniously dump their dogs like so much Christmas wrapping.

The village, again as previously mentioned, has an extravagant collection of dogs, and this is an eyewitness account of how this heterogeneous pack came to be.

Last week, a little puppy was found abandoned, freezing, and starving to death—its ribs starkly standing out—trapped deep in a roadside snowdrift. It was found by a good neighbour and was temporarily given to us to feed and warm up. We have, for unknown reasons, by far the warmest cottage in the village. It was very affectionate and desperately anxious to please, though, as we soon discovered, completely un-housetrained—which, whilst speaking volumes about its original owners, kept us busy.

The next day, the finder of the puppy and some friends came round to discuss what was to be done with it. Most of the permanent residents are animal lovers. Between the half-dozen of us in our cottage that morning, I calculated that we had a grand total of five dogs (most of them abandoned outside the village), four cats, five goats, and three sheep. I have lost count of the chickens and rabbits, which count for eggs, meat, and cash, and are therefore not counted as pets. The former all answer to individual names and are fed by hand. Oh, I forgot: there are a few million bees, who clearly 'know' their keeper.

What's in the Pot?

Shortly after my father, Joseph Anthony Gerard Morrissey, passed away in 2009, I discovered several handwritten diary entries on loose A4 sheets. He had already typed up and published many other entries on a Slovakian website, which is unfortunately no longer online. 

I do not know who wrote these pages or how to trace the author, 

so I am sharing them here to finish what he started.

If you have any information about these entries or recognise who might have written them, 

please get in touch by leaving a message or sending an email.

Enjoy reading.

What's in the Pot?

My partner and I use on our ancient wood-burning range—probably contemporary with our three-hundred-plus-year-old cottage—my long-departed 'aunt's' cooking pot and two skillets, one large and one small. The latter still have their original, detachable teak handles. They are extremely weighty, being made of heavy-gauge cast iron.

At first sight, when I unpacked them from a cardboard box they were far too heavy for, my partner pooh-poohed them. Understandably so, as these utensils are emphatically not for your Aga-owning bourgeois with a compulsory range of colourful, enamelled cast-iron casserole pots. My aunt, if she had known of these expensive kitchen accoutrements, would have heartily despised them.  

My partner dismissed them because, apart from being extremely heavy (the large pot and skillet, even without their lids, are a two-handed job), they had an encrusted interior due to four generations of deposits from the soot, smoke, and ash of countless campfires. They were often buried deep in the embers of a dying campfire without their handles—partly to conserve firewood, but much more importantly, so as not to betray the camp to the watching Japanese by building up a fresh fire with its tell-tale plume of smoke.  

However, for our ancient wood-burning range, they proved ideal. I showed, much to her surprise, that they were very functional and non-stick by virtue of having been cleaned from first use without detergent—just boiling water, and then, while still hot, the interior smeared with oil. This rendered them non-stick: better than any Chinese-made, Teflon-coated, aluminium frying pan guaranteed to last three years, but not four generations.  

It was the sight of these ancient utensils quietly bubbling on the stove that inspired this diary, which is a homage to my aunt's memory and her remarkable life.  

My mother's family was born into the Indian Raj and had lived there for generations. I was the last member of the family to be born there, in 1941, up in the hill station of Simla with its incongruous mock-Tudor bungalows and neat English gardens (no shortage of gardeners and water-boys, then or now). It is at the end of a narrow-gauge mountain railway and boasts a convalescence and maternity hospital because its elevation above the hot, teeming, dusty plains far below ensured a quiet, cool peace for the memsahibs, their babies, young children, and convalescing walking wounded. Both my grandmother and mother were born there.  

When the Japanese—'Nips', as they were termed in those oh-so-politically-incorrect times—invaded Burma and approached India proper, the women and children of the Raj, including my mother and me, were evacuated by convoy via Cape Town to Britain, as Rommel was then threatening the Suez Canal.  

Trooper Beer & The Mystery of the two labels

The Swedish label (left) compared with the standard label (right).

The story goes that Iron Maiden wanted to develop an ale, that their fans could enjoy, all around the world. After speaking to a number of small breweries, who were in favour of the project, but not on the scale that Iron Maiden were looking for, the search continued with Bruce Dickinson, the band's lead singer, taking a trip to the Unicorn Brewery, home of Robinsons Family Brewers. Here, it finally looked like Iron Maiden's dreams could be realised. After a serious talk between Bruce Dickinson and head brewer Martyn Weeks, which Bruce described as an 'interview', about what the band's aspirations and commitment were, the two men set about deciding the flavour, colour and taste of Iron Maiden beer. With the recipe sorted a name was that all that remained to finalise. Wanting to have something patriotic on the label, Trooper instantly leapt into Bruce Dickinson's mind. In May 2013, Trooper was born.

Iron Maiden's song, The Trooper, was released as a single on June 20, 1983. Steve Harris, the band's bassist, wrote the song and based it on The Charge of the Light Brigade, which took place at the Battle of Balaclava, during the Crimean War of 1854. The Charge of the Light Brigade was the result of a misunderstanding of an order, given by Commanding Officer Lord Raglan, and resulted in 600 British cavalry men charging the Russian artillery in a courageous, but foolhardy, assault which resulted in a massive loss of life. 

The single's cover art was designed by Derek Riggs and had the band's mascot, Eddie, in full cavalry uniform charging forward, with a sabre in his right hand and the Union flag in his left. This name and image were perfect for the band and for the fans. Who could complain?

Well, the Swedish, actually. Not the fans, mind, but the law makers.

There was no problem with the beer or the name, but the label would have to be changed, to allow it to be sold in Sweden. This is because Swedish law forbids, elements of war, weapons or aggression to be featured on alcoholic product. So, after altering the label to focus solely on Eddie's face, the Swedish powers-that-be were placated and Trooper became available to the Swedish fans. 

As far as I know, this label is supposed to be exclusive to Sweden, but I have found Trooper on sale in the United Kingdom with this Swedish label. On the plus side, I have discovered that purchasing Trooper, with the Swedish label, is cheaper by up to 70p per bottle. 

Trooper has an Alcohol By Volume (ABV) of 4.7% and is a deep golden ale, made from a unique blend of three different hops and has a slight lemony hint.

In its first year, over 5 million pints of Trooper were brewed and it is now exported to just under 40 countries, quadrupling the export sales of Robinsons Brewery.

In August 2014, Trooper won gold in the British Bottlers' Institute (BBI) Competition 2014. The BBI president Ed Binstead said,

“Trooper was an outstanding entry. It was marked as the clear gold winner in that class by ALL the judges, I can’t remember this happening before. We set very high standards when conducting the blind tasting, none of the judges know the products they are tasting, so the results reflect purely the quality of the products taste. Summing up I would say very well done to Trooper.”

If you like Real Ale's, grab yourself a bottle of Trooper and yell, "Up the Irons!"

Trooper Beer

Robinsons Brewery

Iron Maiden

British Bottlers' Institute

Campaign for Real Ale

Poem: Keep

For how long have you stood there,

Opposing the forces of nature and men?

Your sleek yet sturdy body,

From somewhere way back then.

Your skin as hard as iron,

And as unyielding as steel.

You have protected thousands,

With your determined will.

Now, after long years of silence,

You begin to weep.

Thinking of yourself forgotten,

My friend, my guardian, my keep.

Poem: Morning Sun

The great bird shuddered,
Her engines spluttering to life.
The men looked at each other,
Thoughts turning to family and wives.

The great bird lifted,
Reaching cruising height.
As the the men wondered,
If they would return this night.

The great bird flew,
On towards her enemy.
Below darkening cloud,
Above rolling sea.

The great bird banked,
As explosions shook the night.
The sound of Hell,
With Heaven's Light.

The great bird soared,
And, with target below,
Her cargo was loosed.
And she turned for home.

The great bird survived,
Carrying seven mothers sons.
Who now stood thankful,
In the early morning sun.

Short Story: Splash of Colour

I sit beside a fallen tree, looking down into my field that has been transformed, these past few months. My once lush emerald pasture has been replaced with a patchwork of myriad browns. My once proud trees lie twisted and broken, like so much mangled machinery. Spread without any thought or care, refuse spoils the once manicured ground. Timber frames and mangled steel, cause ghostly silhouettes to dance across the uneven ground, by the diffused sunlight. Water, which fills the pits and troughs, reflects the dull, colourless sky, adding to my sombre mood. My heart feels heavy. Nothing moves. Nothing lives.

But, suddenly, there is clarity. The droplets from the fine rain, acting like a lens, focus my attention. Amongst the refuse, at the edge of the field, do my eyes deceive? Is there movement? Is that colour? I resist blinking, trying to focus on the mirage before me. Finally, I blink and the mirage has taken shape. A figure stares up at me. My body aches as I rise to my feet, the figure watching me closely, as I make my way down into the field, if can still be called that.

My progress is hindered by the thick mud, which sucks at my boots, threatening to pull me into the bowels of the Earth. The figure before me turns, heading toward the centre of the quagmire, seeming to float across the surface. My breath becomes laboured, as my ageing body fights to keep me moving forward. As we get closer to the centre, the figure seems to undulate in-and-out of focus. A wave of nausea sweeps through me as the figure turns and holds my gaze. Tears fill his eyes as he dips his head. With a last great effort I step forward, throwing my arms around him. But he disappears and I topple into the mud. As I push myself up and out of the mud, I notice a flower, swaying in the gentle breeze, exactly where the figure had stood. At this moment the sun breaks through the clouds and  illuminates this splash of colour. Somehow, against all the odds, surviving in the mud and detriment... a Poppy.