“Supporting selfish people is a waste of time and energy! They will always find an excuse to blame you for their own mistakes! Lily Amis
I have found that people who blame others for the negative events in their lives are generally unhappy. They also never seem content with what they have, always looking for someone or something to fulfil their needs. Necessities sometimes, more generally, vain luxuries which boost their egos, not make their life more comfortable. Their negativity, if you are not careful can readily rub off on you. This is especially so where a partner is demanding of, and abusing a compliant giver. Both feel let down and unfulfilled. Even worse, if negativity takes over a group or team it can become contagious requiring either a new leader or a change of the group personalities to alter the attitude of the whole. My last trip in the merchant navy was an example of this, I could not change it, so it gave me an excuse to leave.
For most of my life, I have been positive. However, I have let myself down on occasion by trying to make an incompatible, business or personal partnership work. So much misspent energy.
“If you are incompatible, get out as soon as you can. Do not be mistaken that it will get better. The worst scenario is in believing any relationship will get better by formalising it. It will hold a good partnership together but will not be enough to salvage or improve a poor one.” Peter McSporran
Often blame generates a feeling of misguided guilt. Accepting blame is different to guilt, in fact, I would say guilt is brought about by a lack of taking responsibility for one's actions. We could even include thoughts here in ultra-sensitive people. Those that take on imaginary guilt or blame themselves for others’ failures. I have done this myself in the past. When I have been at my unhappiest, it has been trying to please those that I now believe could never be happy.
Heart Reboot
This week I had my heart reboot. After a long wait, 5 hours, due to an administration mix up at the hospital on Tuesday, my cardiologist stopped and restarted my heart. It has gone from an erratic 60 to 150 beats per minute to a steady 58 to 60. It may not last and may require to be repeated. I am yet to feel the benefits, I will let you know the outcome next week. All tests carried out before the procedure were within normal levels. A first for a long time.
Port Shenanigans
Being 17 years old with a sheltered upbringing on Mull coupled with boys-only boarding school, my release into the world was like being catapulted into the unknown. Of course, for many years I had enjoyed an illicit drink, that was the culture on the Hebridean islands in those days. Drink meant entertainment and entertainment without a drink was unknown. If you wanted to go to a dance you had a drink. House parties were unheard of for the young, only dinner parties for the older. I suppose in a way in those days dances on Mull were what we would deem as ceilidhs. Traditional dances such as Strip the Willow, Gay Gordons and Dashing White Sergeants were the norm. There were no night clubs or
discos on Mull before the 1970s. For all, I know there are none now.
Therefore, when I joined the ship in London, finding ourselves stuck alongside the docks due to strikes, we looked for entertainment. The local pubs in the East End were not the place to be for strangers with even stranger accents. Most of the locals were very welcoming, but there were always the hard nuts who would want to stir up trouble as a show of their prowess to the local ladies. After a few bruising
experiences we abandoned this and took to catching the tube to the West End of London on our nights off duty. This was all well and good except we had little cash. Therefore when we went around Soho, other than buying a few beers, our entertainment was window shopping the “strip joints” and other dens of iniquity. There was a group of about four of us who would go out together, mainly to cover each other’s backs, must-have safety in numbers, especially on the walk back from the tube station to the docks. We had no money for taxi fares. Over the 18 months, I was in the merchant navy our drink in London changed to “Rum and Black.” This is a rum with blackcurrant cordial. I have not had one since nor can I remember why it became our drink of choice. Maybe we thought rum was compulsory for all sailors? Imbibing increased our bravado. One night we convinced David, part of our group, to approach a prostitute standing in a doorway to ask her how much for her wares. She looked at him, then us gawking close behind his shoulder and informed him she did not do groups and to ”F£@! Off!” So much for our venture into the seedy world of the sex trade.
In Mombasa very rarely did we go into the street bars. They were chock-a-block with prostitutes who would pester you worse than Mopani bees or mosquitoes. We had been warned by our ship’s doctor of the diseases we could potentially catch. He added in East Africa a particular STD known as “Vietnam Rose” had been brought over by American sailors. He told us it was probably incurable, enough to scare the most ardent young sailors straight out of school. Of course, Mombasa was an extremely busy port, many of the sailors were of Asian descent. The Japanese presence, particularly obvious in most bars. One notable bar-come nightclub which we frequented was the Casablanca. It is world-renowned and as far as I know still open. Yes, there were a lot of ladies selling their affections. Seemingly the owner looked after them very well, it is rumoured more than 300 of them attended his funeral.
That left the Seaman’s Mission which would organise dances, guests to private parties, the local sports clubs, the beach hotels and the sea for entertainment. We were exceedingly disenchanted to visit Nyali Beach, just North of Mombasa, finding it full of gorgeous Northern European women who had no interest in young European boys, showing much more attentiveness to the local gigolos.
On my second trip, I did three to East Africa, I met the daughter of an ex-pat school teacher, Lorraine Jones. A lovely girl, my first true girlfriend as opposed to a schoolboy crush. She was home visiting her parents from Teachers Training College in London. Her parents’ employees paid for her airfare each holiday. My last two trips there coincided with her visits, which kept me on the straight and narrow. It did bring me grief though in the form of inconceivable jealousy from the senior cadet who tried everything in his power to break us up, including giving me extra duty watches when some or other function was on. This relationship continued even after I left the merchant navy but failed to survive college life.
My disintegrating relationship with the senior cadet was strengthening my will to go through with my decision to leave British India. His perverted ways and bullying of others led me to report him to the training officer. I did not do this alone, a cadet called Ginger joined me in the complaint. Both he and I were not bullied, we did it on behalf of a couple of meeker cadets and a trainee purser. The trainee officer ignored my reports, so I took it up with the captain and head office on my final trip. More about that next week.
Friends Made at CFU
During my time at the CFU, I made many friends, I was welcomed into hundreds of homes the length and breadth of the country. Whilst travelling, both my waist and liver grew during my time with the CFU. How could I refuse such kind and freely given hospitality?
Over and above the commodity associations there were some 50 odd Farmers Associations, most of which I visited and spoke to in my four years at the CFU. Vernon Nicolle and I became very good friends. We both enjoyed horse racing and farming. Two other ‘town’ friends also became close and weekly lunches developed into business ventures and horse-owning syndicates. The two gentlemen in question were Kevin O’Toole, then the financial director of the largest textile company in Zimbabwe and Warwick Small, owner of H.E. Jackson, a large irrigation and mining supplier. One of his specialities was the installation of municipal water suppliers being an agent for Wear Pumps from Scotland. Kevin is still in Zimbabwe, Vernon is in Australia and Warwick is in Cape Town. Mugabe even cast asunder friends.
Another two great friends I made while at CFU was John Meikle, from the renowned Meikle family dynasty and David Irvine. Both with Scottish heritage. David’s family were and still are the largest poultry producers in Zimbabwe. John lived in Penhalonga where he farmed export flowers and timber. He also had a Bauxite mine in Mozambique with his own private border post between the two countries. On leaving the CFU these two gentlemen and I tried to make some sense of the land reform exercise to no avail. In 1978, a donor conference was organised where funds were raised in principle to carry out a planned reallocation of land with compensation. It required one signature to have this agreement ratified, this being Mugabe. Land being his last playing card to appease the War Veterans, he refused to sign it. He had already, in 1997 on what became ironically known as “Black Friday” triggered the spiral of inflation by offering 60,000 War Veterans a lump sum of some ZWD50,000 each plus a pension of USD125 per month outside of the budget. On obtaining this, it only fuelled these cadres’ desire for more power and they began to bay for land. Mugabe was extremely nervous of them, appeasing them to maintain his tenure in office. Some went beyond intimidation and torture to the extent of murder.
Meanwhile, Kevin, Vernon, Warwick and myself had set up a company to trade with Australia, all of us obtaining a business visa for that country. One line which was especially popular with Zimbabwean farmers were the Grizzly heavy land preparation equipment. We successfully brought in many units, however, with the land issue now disrupting confidence, we had to wind this business down in 2000.
My brother-in-law and I brought in the first Droughtmaster cattle from Australia in the form of embryos. These cattle were meant to be hardy, drought-resistant and “capable of living off soft stones.” We enjoyed our sojourns into Australia, made many friends and even had a racehorse in Perth, Western Australia. I was a “Born Again Bachelor,” at that time enabling me to have fun without guilt.
Disclaimer: Copyright Peter McSporran. The content in this blog represents my personal views and does not reflect corporate entities.
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