Portland naval base, as it was with those oil tanks

Portland has undergone huge changes in the last 15 to 20 years, most noticeable is the Royal Navy leaving, you can see in the picture that the base still has the old oil tanks running alongside the main Beach Road. (Thanks to Andre for that picture. )

This is now where the sailing academy is among a few other industrial buildings, mainly boat-building, sail-makers, wind-surf based businesses, etc, all similar related businesses.

It makes me feel odd seeing images from my childhood, I can remember the hovercraft we had down in the base, any of you remember that?

Andre kindly sent me a poem, again by Bob Wollage, Bob is a relative of Andres. This is taken from “Softbur and whitbed” and it’s called …

When we were nippers

The days be gone when we was young,
An full of energy an’ fun,
The tricks we played along our street,
Would make todays lads seem asleep.

“You ain’t sid Nuncle or Dublin ’bout,
They both have promised I a clout,
Thick brick we tied on Nuncles door,
An rung the bell, an’ off we tore,
Banged terrible hard when door was opened,
He hit Nuncs toe and ‘had he gropin’,

An Dublin too, he’s in a sweat,
Thick parcel that he found on step,
Tied up wi’ ribbon, didn’t half hum,
Was full of Jabes Pearces dung.
Mind you he’d just cleaned congor bait,
An’ they had bloaters upon plate,
I don’t supposet’would make much odds,
But t’was enough to make yer nod.

Down over ‘Slobbs’ we shot off next,
To see if Billy could stand test,
We know he’d holler, balw and roar,
We’d tied a rope on door before,
An t’other end to Jens next down,
An’ then we had a double sound.
They hollered, cried, bawled blue murder,
Till Jenny couldn’t goo no further,
She gid a shriek an’ fainted flat,
They found her with her arms ’round cat.

While all this row was goin’ on,
Bob, Dick and Ivan, Sky and Ron,
Was laughing at ‘em drew the wall,
It made them cheer to hear Bill bawl,
But soon they beat a quick retreat,
An’ kip out sight fer rest of week.

But idle hands soon found release,
In peltin’ poor old Tombo’s geese,
An’ scrumpin from Garge Henry’s trees,
Or pinchin Gert Will Buscoes peas.
To snack the bells on Parish Church’
Or knock Bats pigeons off ther’ perch.

But t’wodden long for ‘Wesky’ said-
“Lets git down barton, long young Ted,
An’ light a fire to kip us warm,
There’s Lano’s ricks ther’, all forlorn,
Wi’ll kip the fire gwine until eight,
Then I’m out ‘Butts’ to meet me mate”.

The fire was light an’ blazin’ bright,
We’d never sid such a lovely sight.
But t’wodden long to our dismay,
We found the rick was well away.
Of course by now t’was rather hot,
Wesky decided he couldn’t stop.
An’ we though tbetter of it – yes,
Cos PC Crab – we gi he best.
An’ he’d be snoopin’ round, we knew,
An there we’d all be in the stew.

We’d yer’d that the brigade was told,
But took two hours for they called,
Cos Fireman White, his axe mislaid,
Caused Captain Stilby much delay.

Then hose got taffold in a rope,
An’ water gid ‘em all a soak,
We couldn’t wait to join the fun,
‘Fore we were back, like shot out gun.
We sconpt’d on hoses, dance wi glee’
Poor Captain Stilby, we could see,
Was sorely troubled, hat askew,
He certainly didn’t know what to do.
He’d never dealt wi’ Ducktown blokes,
T’was always Easson gentle volk.

Then when at last he gained control,
We shot like hares, drew barton wall,
An’ off we shot, to find young Tab,
To work out next move with the lads.
So while we fired at ‘Ducky Stones’,
Or ‘Wip the Tin’ – Sky played the bones,
Some dabbed ther’ hand down ‘Lucky Dip’,
An’t t’others played ‘Kick Donkey Kick’.
An’ in the game called ‘Jumpin’ Jog’,
A gert cow pat was found fer Bob,
Over he sailed to ther’ delight,
But when he landed, what a sight,
T’was plastered on his clothes an’ hair,
To goo home now, he would not dare,
Cos Mother with her mighty hand,
Would kip his backside awfull waarm.

Off down hoss trow – near Ned Pages,
Removin’ stink in easy stages,
Then prepare for the next affray,
Just one more dodge, to make our day.
We didn’t have too long to wait,
‘Fore sparks was flyin’ from the grate,
Of readin’ room, the Village Hall,
The place where all the old men call -
To play ther’ games of crib an’ draughts,
To yarn and tell the tale an’ laugh.
We waited for them to begin,
To git absorbed, an’ settled in,
We shinnied up Gas Post, put out lights,
To add to darkness of the night.
Then up top roof we shoved young Nat,
An wi ‘en one gert soggy sack,
To stuff down chimney, hard and fast,
To gi ‘em all a smokey blast.
T’wodden long for we y’erd coughin’,
Bert was chokin’, Bengy barkin’,
Neddy Ito, he was gaspin’
Tombo wheezed -’Who’s boots be burnin’,
Bob Lop hollerin, Tommy cussin’,
Out fly’d door an’ out they tumbled,
Poor wold Togo must be stumbled,
Cos next we sid ‘em in a heap -
Just like Reg Lano’s flock of sheep.
An while they lay there all apantin’,
All we young mugs near died a laughin’.

When we got home at half past eight,
Mother remarked “You’re rather late,
Now git they clothes off, up they stairs,
An’ don’t ferget to say yer prayers,
And when yer ready – after me -
For all they who in peril be,
Lard save from fire, on land and sea”

Bob Wollage.

Wouldn’t it be great it we could all put our childhood experiences into poems?

Some of these names in this poem will be familiar to some of you readers.

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