Blog Archives - FordeFables

November 30th, 2016.

30/11/2016

Thought for today:
"I know that the term, 'Put a feather in your cap' is an English idiomatic phrase believed to have been derived from times when warriors added another feather to their headdress for every enemy slain, but I always think about getting 'one-up' on life whenever I hear this phrase.

If ever any Literary teacher gives you an English assignment entitled 'What would you like to be?', no need to think long and hard. Simply write, 'Happy' and return the assignment finished. If they then tell you that you didn't understand the assignment, 'put a feather in your cap' and tell them, 'Yes I did. It's you I'm afraid who doesn't understand life!'

I discovered long ago that the thing about happiness is that, by and large, it is you who controls your own prevailing moods. Folk are usually as happy as they make up their minds to be. So, don't put your key to happiness in someone else's pocket or place the responsibility upon the shoulder of another person or on the outcome of some particular action or event. Every act 'we' engage in, every emotion 'we' feel is governed by every thought 'we' think. Happiness is found through the direction of our own thoughts, whatever the place or circumstances we find ourselves in. The more we praise and celebrate all that is good in our lives, the more we will find in our lives to celebrate. If I was Inspector Maigret investigating someone who'd broken into smile, I'd have to conclude that it looked like an inside job!

Had I a magic wand I could wave, I would make it the duty of all parents and children, brothers and sisters, husband and wives, friends and neighbours never to go to bed angry with each other; far better to stay up and row than to resign oneself to lasting disagreement. Now, if I could achieve that, that would deserve a feather in my cap.

So please, don't let your happiness escape you. Bring it out from within and share it with all others. What a waste of life it would be and how ironic, were you happy and not know it by never allowing yourself to feel it. We are shaped and fashioned by what we love. So, if you like to be loved, then, far better to love and be lovable. It is within ourselves that live our best friend and worse enemy, simply waiting to be called out.

Today is a good day to be alive, and there is nothing better I can do today, but to smile and be happy." William Forde: November 30th, 2016.

November 29th, 2016.

29/11/2016

Thought for today:
"The one good thing about getting married more than once is that you have a better idea about faulty goods the second time around. Just short of six years ago, I saw Sheila for the first time. I knew almost from that first meeting between us that though true love will never be found where it does not exist; neither can one's heart deny it where it does!

Since our marriage on my 70th birthday in November 2012, Sheila has made me happier than any man outside the gates of heaven has any right to expect. Ever since we met, Sheila realised that I would never be the type of man who would allow himself to be bound by convention or seek shelter under the umbrella of popularity whatever the occasion, and to her lasting credit, she has never sought to change me from being the man she first met. She saw in me from the start, a freedom of thought and expression that would never be imprisoned and she has generally allowed me my own way in all things. In doing this, she has shown herself to be the wisest of women and the best of wives. She has always understood how to keep her lovebird; she has always known that if you love someone, you set them free, and if they come back they are yours, and if they don't, they never were!

Shortly after our marriage, we were both faced with the news that I had a terminal illness which could be placed in remission if a nine month course of chemotherapy worked, but which could never be cured and which would return at a later date. Since learning that news, Sheila has been the very foundation of my living strength. We have had to face many medical obstacles over the past four years and there has rarely been one week when my health and functioning was trouble free. This experience has taught me that love is never static; it is an ever-growing process that develops and strengthens through the ups and downs of life. It is never stronger than when a man and wife cry, laugh and suffer together and its mainstay is the knowledge that if love is to survive to the end, it should never try to escape reality or abandon hope.

Today is Sheila's sixtieth birthday which is a landmark for both of us. For a woman to hit the big 60 without looking a day older than 50 is no mean feat in today's pressurised world, and for me, to be married to a woman aged 60 is also a first! Thank you, Sheila, for the love that you have always given me and your most unselfish of ways. There are only two occasions in life that I long to be close to you; now and forevermore. A very happy birthday, sweetheart. Know that you are loved more than any other woman has ever been loved. Forever yours Bill xxxxx" Wlliam Forde: November 29th, 2016.

https://youtu.be/fU8tQpCZEzg

November 28th, 2016.

28/11/2016

Thought for today:
"The root to the eternal nourishment of the soul is to find a partner who touches you and brings forth feelings hitherto unknown to open hearts. One can never blame gravity for 'falling in love'; such feelings are emotions that are worked up and never down. I knew that I loved Sheila instantly once I glimpsed her unchanging goodness and the innocence of her thoughts. I knew that I'd fallen in love with her when I sensed that her mere presence made me fall apart from the serious man I often think myself to be. She helped to restore my faith in womanhood after my wife had wanted a divorce; not because I'd been a bad husband, but because she wanted a change of partner and circumstance.

Knowing Sheila, has taught me so much about the spirituality of love and the simplicity of purpose; to do good, and when that's done, to do some more! People whom one truly loves, assume an elegance and grace in regard to everything about them. They hold inner beauties that you see clearer than any other and possess secrets told to none, but their soul mate. Their chief character flaw stem from a fragility of feelings which wounds them far deeper if betrayed, than any person should ever be hurt. Their philosophy makes the walking of all paths through life easier to travel when they are by your side, because it is love that guides them as they explore. It is love that leads them to dream and discover their happiness that the world holds in trust for them. At an earlier age than most, people like Sheila discover that when you love life, life loves you back. Pessimism and cynicism become strangers in their rug-sacks and instead of seeing nothing as being a miracle, they know that everything that lives and breathes is! No path in life can ever prevent them reaching their goal. If they find that they've taken a wrong course, they simply turn around and seek a better way. If they come across an obstacle, they either go around it, surmount it or get rid of it! They become pragmatists to purpose and guardians of the good.

They are perfect soul mates to catch when love comes your way, and they are to be found in the Village of Haworth in abundance; especially during the month of December when seasonal compassion is capable of softening the hardest of hearts and the heavens hold the promise of a newborn star."William Forde: November 28th, 2016.

November 27th, 2016.

27/11/2016

Thought for today:
"I recently came across the photograph below. It is of Cleckheaton in the year 1905. With the exception of the tram lines that are no longer there, everything else in the photo is more or less as I remember it as I grew up in the 1950's.

Between the ages of 5-21 years, I grew up on Windybank Estate in Hightown, about one and a half miles from Cleckheaton. For my family and friends, Cleckheaton represented a large part of our lives. In many ways, it was the centre of our universe once we left the estate.The nearest Catholic Church that our family attended was in Cleckheaton; which was located fifty yards away from the bottom right of this photograph. Each Sunday, my father and his three eldest children would walk the one and a half miles from home, down the New Road to attend Sunday service, and it would be lunch time before we'd walked back home again. Then, for our Sunday afternoon activity, my parents would walk us three miles across the fields from Windybank Estate to the park in Brighouse, where the brass band played. By the time we had walked back home, we would be hungry and ready for bed.

My mother had this annoying habit of cycling to church on a Sunday morning at the last minute. She would always arrive at church five minutes after the service had started and leave to smoke a cigarette outside before the priest had given his congregation the last blessing! When I say that my mother would cycle to church, I mean that she would turn the pedals until she got off the estate, but once she got to the top of the New Road, she would simply sit in the saddle and free wheel a mile down the hill, smiling at any late church stragglers she passed by with a royal wave. She wore her long, black hair loose and I'm sure that she pretended to be the film star Maureen O'Hara from 'The Quiet Man' film as it blew freely in the breeze. After Sunday service, as the eldest child in the family, she would tell me to push the bike back home for her, as the return journey was all uphill.

'Cleckheaton Market Place' was the place where all the best bargains were to be had; this was located at the bottom left of this photograph. All the families from the estate would go there, where second-hand clothes, poultry, almost anything one needed, could be purchased. My very first bike was bought from the Market Place when I was 8 years old. My father paid ten shillings for it. It was naturally second hand. It had a black frame and two wheels, one with a punctured tyre. It also had a worn saddle, a rusty frame,no mudguards, and only one break. I loved learning to ride that bike up and down the avenue of Windybank Estate. With one break at the front of the bike and none at the back, when one suddenly stopped, it seemed no different than learning to ride a bucking bronco

Whenever we needed to see a doctor, we would travel to the surgery in Cleckheaton. We were usually taken there by my mum, but when I was 9 years old, mum decided that it was about time I was able to take myself when I next needed to go. I recall going to the doctor's surgery on my own when I was ten years old and felt very important and grown up as I entered the building without an adult by my side. I sat in the smoke-filled waiting room for fifteen minutes before my turn came around. When I went in to see the doctor, I told him that I was coughing on a morning and bringing up some yellow stuff from the pit of my stomach. He provided no examination of my throat and continued to smoke the remainder of his 'Craven A' cigarette that smouldered in the ashtray on his desk. He then looked at me very authoritatively and said, 'It looks like you've got catarrh, lad,' he replied, adding 'This is a catarrh area, boy, and it's only to be expected!' That was the extent of my visit to see the doctor on that occasion.

Later that year, I fell in love with Winifred Healey who went to my school in Heckmondwike. I was 10 years old and Winifred was going on 11 years. I wanted to impress Winifred so that she'd forgo all other boyfriends and wait for me to one day marry her. The way I chose to dazzle her was to give her a solitaire diamond engagement ring. Having no money to buy a diamond ring, I stole one from the home of my best mate, Peter Lockwood. His parents would frequently invite me to have my tea with Peter and on the evening in question, his twenty-year-old sister, Margaret, took off her engagement ring while she washed up. I seized my opportunity and stole it before making my excuses to leave. It took the local bobby who investigated the theft two days before he sussed out it was me. At first, I denied the theft, but once it became common knowledge that 11-year-old Winifred Healey was strutting around showing all and sundry her diamond engagement ring, the game was up! I was subsequently taken down to the nearest Police Station in Cleckheaton and given a verbal telling off by a burly looking sergeant.

My first job was at 'Bulmer and Lumb's Textile Mill', one-quarter mile beyond Cleckheaton town centre, in the direction of Heckmondwike; which at the turn of the 20th century, was probably the textile capital of the world when it came to the manufacture of carpets. Of all the jobs I ever had in my life, my years in the mill of 'Bulmer and Lumbs' shall remain the most memorable. The first time I ever had my trousers pulled down by a woman was at the age of 15 years during my first day at the mill. Although this experience would not be the last time a female would remove my trousers, this first time was the most embarrassing of experiences I ever encountered, and it was done without my consent! Part of my job specifications was that of all new boys, who ran errands between one foreman and another. This task nearly always took one through the spinning and weaving sheds. Little did I know on that first day of work that, like all newcomers before me, I would be subjected to a textile Christening by the women of the spinning and weaving sheds, the very first time I walked by their machines. Believe me, having one's trousers forcibly removed by twenty or more laughing females and having one's todger pulled and poked in public view, is an experience that a young man never forgets. One must bear in mind that working class males of the 1950's rarely wore underpants during the working week. After my mill Christening had taken place and I was accepted into their ranks as a work mate, I later asked one of the women why they had this humiliating ritual. Her reply was, 'To get to know thee, lad. Once we've seen thee tackle up close, its easier to know whether your worth sitting next to on the bus when we have the work's annual outing!'

The first shop to the top left of the photograph was 'Sladdins' clothes shop. This shop was like an upmarket version of 'Greenwoods' and one's first suit would often be bought there. None of the boys from the estate ever liked getting measured for a suit there as the effeminate speaking owner always took a month of Sundays measuring one's inside leg. At a time when any homosexual act landed the perpetrator in prison, it seemed that, apart from being a 'Redcoat' at Butlins or an airline steward, the only way for any gay to get their thrills was working in a clothing store that made up suits!

The farthest pair of buildings at the top of the photograph were the two cinemas next door to each other, 'The Palace' and 'The Savoy.' Every Saturday morning as a growing boy, I would attend the matinee and watch a cowboy film. If anyone had no money to get in, one of their friends would open the fire door near the toilets and let them in. So it was perfectly normal to see one boy visit the toilet, only to have two boys emerge a few minutes later. Every week the film would break down and until the projectionist had restored it, every boy and girl would shout at the top of their voices, clap and stamp loudly and throw all manner of objects at other patrons. The cinema was also the place where often girls and boys had their first kiss and fumble, and the back row was always reserved exclusively for those older girls and boys who wanted nobody to see what they got up to in the dark.

Fifty yards beyond the bottom left of the photograph was the bus station, which features in some of my adult books. As courting couples waited for the last bus home after a night out, but couldn't wait a moment longer for their goodnight kiss, young men and women would slip behind the back of the bus terminal. As the last bus came in, one in the queue often saw a couple emerge from the darkness, still hurriedly rearranging their clothes.

To the top right of the photograph was the 'Town Hall'. The 'Town Hall' was the place where all the young went to bop on a Saturday night. Invariably, a fight between different groups of boys would break out, and before one knew it, the entire dance floor would be fighting in lumps. I once had a fight upstairs in the 'Town Hall' when my opponent and I went over the fifteen-foot-drop balcony. He broke a leg and fractured an arm, and luckily, I escaped with mere bruises.

To the bottom right of the photograph, about five yards further on, was a cross road junction. To the right was the park and to the left was a road called 'Peg Lane' that led to Gomersal. Part way down 'Peg Lane' was a large waste ground, which for two weeks every year, a visiting fair would park. I'll never forget my first time visiting this fairground without my parents. I was fascinated by 'The Big Wheel' which was the most popular ride by all the courting couples. As one's coach got to the stop, 'The Big Wheel' would stop for a few minutes, making some think it had broken down and they'd be stuck there! The courting couples loved the ride because the higher up the coach went, the less they were in public view and the more hanky-panky they engaged in. Just before I made a move to go back home one fateful night, one of my mates older brother fell out of 'The Big Wheel' after it had stopped at the top. Down he went, only to have his life spared by the poor girl he landed on and who'd cushioned his fall. The girl died and my mate's brother was left crippled for the remainder of his life; which strangely never prevented him riding a 500 cc motor cycle. A number of years later, he too was killed doing 'a ton' (a hundred mph) along the road to Blackpool as he raced another motor bike user from the estate.

Along the Bradford Road towards Moorend, about a few hundred yards beyond the 'Town Hall' was the best pub in Cleckheaton at the time, 'The Commercial.' This pub was where I had my first illegal pint of beer during my 15th year of life. It was also in the near vicinity to the place where I next had my trousers pulled down willingly by a 17-year-old Heckmondwike girl whose name I never knew, but who shared an experience I'll never forget. 'The Commercial' was highly popular because it was one of the first Cleckheaton pubs to have Rock and Roll groups entertain its customers. All the other pubs had some elderly pianist who would play singalong songs from the 1940's/50's, where the night's final rendition that was guaranteed to lift the pub roof was always, 'Nellie Dean'.

As an 11-year-child, a lorry ran over me on the estate and left me with extensive injuries. A Cleckheaton solicitor eventually secured £1200 compensation for me, which was kept in trust until my 21st birthday. Between 11 and 21 years, interest accrued on my compensation brought the amount up to well in excess of £2000 (twice the national average annual wage for a working man). By the November of 1963, when my 21st birthday arrived, I wanted to throw one of the best parties that my friends on Windybank Estate had ever been to. It seemed very important to push out the boat with a cheer, as I was booked to emigrate to Canada a month later. So I booked the best Rock and Roll Group in Yorkshire for the then princely sum of £45, which represented two weeks wages at the time. The going price for any top group at the time was £30 for a night, but I agreed to pay them the princely sum of £45 if they didn't have as many intermissions as usual. We arranged that the group would start playing while the rest of us bopped the night away, and that they were not to have a break until I indicated they could.I clearly had 'control issues' at the time.

I was the first in the pub that evening to receive my guests as they arrived. As each person came into the dancing room of the pub, they bought me a short to celebrate my birthday and like the fool I was, I drank them down one after the other. The upshot was that the band started doing their turn at 8.00 pm, but by 9.00 pm I was at home in bed, drunk as a skunk. I learned the following day that after I'd left the pub drunk and was taxied home, the other guests continued to have a good time. I also learned that the Rock and Roll group that went on stage at 8.00 pm didn't stop playing and singing until 10.45 pm when a fight broke out. The fight started with one drunken youth throwing a part-eaten pork pie at someone, and that act quickly escalated to a real slanging match where chairs were tossed, along with glasses.I was later told that it was as good as any Saturday night rumble at the 'Town Hall'.Two mates were taken to the hospital and George Minett was later found hung up on the washing line out back. When I called around to 'The Commercial' the next day after having heard the gossip, the landlord charged me thirty-two pounds to cover the damages and barred me from the pub!

With regard to women and courting, my mother's advice had always been, 'Billy, when you marry, marry for love, but if you love 'em and they also happen to have rich parents, don't dally. And whatever you do, don't marry a Heckmondwike girl because they're nothing but trouble!'

After I came back from Canada and was ready for settling down, it wasn't surprising at all when my girlfriend whom I later married, lived in Cleckheaton with her widowed mother and younger sister. It was about seven years after we'd married when my mother's advice came back to haunt me. My first marriage had started to go downhill and it was only then that I discovered from my mother-in-law that my wife had been born in Heckmondwike!

I will always think kindly of dear old Cleckheaton as being the consecration and the cradle of my development. It was the most influential town in my life. There are so many bawdy tales that I could tell, but it would be unfair to so many Winybank/Cleckheaton residents who are still alive and have good reputations to maintain. Cleckheaton was the place that I enjoyed many of my 'firsts,' and it will always hold a lasting memory for me; and to think that I never actually lived there, but passed many landmarks of my development there. Long live Cleckheaton or Cleckheckmondsedge as my old friend, Richard Whitely, used to call it." William Forde: November 27th, 2016

November 26th, 2016

26/11/2016

Thought for today:
"Since our lovely Rough Collie dog, Lady, died a couple of months ago, rarely a day goes by when I do not miss her. Although she'd been my wife Sheila's dog for a dozen years and had been a part of my life for only half that time, she did journey with me in a way that she never could on her morning walks on the Haworth Moor with her mistress.

I recall that when I first discovered I had an incurable blood cancer, it was as though Lady sensed the changing circumstances in my health. Then, as the following few years went by and my mobility started to become affected, Lady started to mirror my symptoms. It was as though we had both started to walk the same path as we journeyed through similar symptoms of ill health. We had both found it harder to walk far and fast, and we each started to struggle whenever we climbed the stairs and descended them.

Most of the days of my year are spent writing stories at my laptop. I work from the kitchen table, where Sheila and I spend most of our days across from each other. Lady used to spend her day on her rug at the table end, between both of us. Every now and then, when Lady thought we might have forgotten she was there, she would nuzzle one of us with her cold nose, looking for a pat of love. Whenever we ate, she would sit obediently awaiting her share of the leftovers, especially when the delicacy was part of a fat pork sausage or a bit of succulent pork pie from 'Lunds the Butcher'.

I still look for her whenever I leave the house and return. I still feel her constant presence in my life and often I find my left hand hanging down at the table end awaiting the wet touch of that compassionate canine tongue. Most evenings, Sheila and I will have a couple of games of scrabble. We are both keen players and show the other no mercy, especially when the tiles fall in our favour. When Sheila wins, she has this habit of wearing that smug look across her face that only women are capable of shamelessly adopting, disguised by a winning smile of silent satisfaction as she puts the game away in its box until the next time we play. Whenever I win, I tend to stand up proudly at the end of the game and strut from the room gloating, 'Make way, make way, make way, Lady! Make way for the king; the king of rummy, the king of scrabble, the king of everything!'

And despite Lady having passed away these past few months, I still find myself reciting this mantra as I walk around her shadow and hear her infectious bark once more in my mind's eye as she acknowledges my victory. Each meal I eat, I still find myself leaving a small portion on the side of my plate to give to Lady.

The one thing that Lady and Sheila undoubtedly shared was 'that look'. It is that look which all young girls first discover whenever they want a treat from daddy! It is that look of maidenhood that is capable of capturing the heart and imagination of any confirmed bachelor she wants to marry! It is that look of loss that cries out for fulfilment and melts the hardest of hearts! It is that look which is capable of taking the last morsel of food from your mouth and eating it with relish! God bless you, Lady; we miss you lots." William Forde: November 26th, 2016.

November 25th, 2016.

25/11/2016

Thought for today:
"There has been a surfeit of press and media reports over the past year that often makes Great Britain out to be a less compassionate country than we ought to be; especially when it comes to the plight of migrants and the totality of our national response to the crisis at hand. While our country's response may satisfy some and not others, there will always be some people from both sides of the discussion who will disagree with the other side's viewpoint. Some will genuinely feel that we have not done enough while others will believe that we have done more than our fair share. I do not know the answer to this human tragedy which has mushroomed across the continents of the world and which have resulted in this mass exodus of human travellers; nor do I suspect, does anyone else, whatever their political persuasion.

What I do know is that any tragedy hits hardest when it occurs nearer one's home and doorstep. Just as having a loved one die of some illness can lead the bereaved family to spend the remainder of their life raising funds or financially contributing to a cure for that illness in preference to other illnesses, then so the death of little children nearer home will have a greater emotional impact upon the hearts and purse strings of the indigenous population than the death of little children from other parts of the world!

Take three incidents; the Aberfan disaster that was caused by the collapse of a colliery spoil tip in the Welsh village near Merthyr Tydfil in October 1966, that killed 116 children and 28 adults, or a greater number of innocent children and adults who have been killed as a result of our country's action. For instance, Tony Blair's and George Bush's illegal war in Iraq and the ongoing hostilities between 2003 and 2010 resulted in the loss of hundreds of thousands of innocent civilians, including helpless children, just as the war waged jointly by the Russians and the Syrian Government today within the Syrian borders have killed thousands of innocent children and their families indiscriminately!

One can also consider the many thousands of deaths of travelling migrants and their families across treacherous seas in overcrowded vessels during the past year and the inactivity of many countries to adequately provide a united and humane response to this tragic situation.

As a writer and historian, I know that when it comes to choosing which one to help, above all other considerations, the saving of an animal, whether wild or domestic, has a greater emotional pull on the heart and purse strings of the British public than the saving of a human life. I also know that one of the reasons this is so, is because animals are rarely responsible for the plight they find themselves in, whereas often, many humans are judged to be.

But, what about children, from whichever part of the globe they hail from? Do these innocents bear any responsibility for what their parents and governments chose to do or the war-torn environments they are born into? Do any of the children who are not yet old enough to walk bear responsibility of where their parents carry them? I think not!

I will never forget an incident I witnessed when I was eight years old. The year was 1951, and as was the common practice at the time in working class circles, after a cat had given birth to a large litter of unwanted kittens, the kittens were placed in a tied sack and drown in a local river.

It fell to the son of a neighbour friend of mine, to carry out this dastardly deed after his father had bagged the kittens up for death by drowning. The young boy who was one year older than me and called Johnie asked me to accompany him to the river on this task. Johnie knew that he would be for it if he did not return with an empty sack, so after some discussion between the two of us, we found an old, disused barn and let the kittens out of the sack. We planned to return daily for the next week to feed the kittens (not realising that they would need milk instead of solids), but when we returned to the barn the following day, the kittens had gone. God only knows what had happened to them, but whatever did happen, I know that Johnie and I felt better because we'd tried.We were also enabled to put the matter from the immediacy of our thoughts because the kittens were no longer there.

It seemed to us at the time that we had bought the kittens an extra day of life at least, yet we cannot know what kind of day that turned out to be for the kittens. For all we knew, a wild fox may have discovered the litter we left in the barn, killed them and either buried them or ate them, as foxes have been known to do, or perhaps some benevolent human entered the barn, saw the little mites and found them all good homes!

I believe that when all of the water has been drained from the cooking pot of life, that all any person can ever do is to try to help in the best way they think they can to preserve all form of life. There are many kinds of death, whether one is a puppy, a litter of kittens or a child, and I am sure that drowning is not the most humane!" William Forde: November 25th, 2016.

November 24th, 2016.

24/11/2016

Thought for today:
"In the courtship stakes, I have to admit (modesty to one side for a moment), that I have never been alone or in want of companionship very long before being able to attract a good looking woman to my side. Since my teenage years, I have always been popular among my peers, and being a decent dancer seemed an important gateway that gained me entrance to many a fair maiden's arms. I was always reasonably attractive, never vulgar in mannerisms, always positive in attitude, confident in action and clever enough in conversation. While no doubt these character traits held some sway in making myself a more appealing catch to some of the opposite sex, I know deep down what the clincher was; I know what it was that made me that little bit different from most other chaps. It was simply the fact, that for over half of my life, I'd been a 'bad boy' who most young women could sense would one day become a 'good man'.

I don't know what it is about women, but so many of the good lookers on the planet invariably seem to gravitate towards the 'bad boy.' It seems to suggest that unless they can hold a bomb in their hands that is likely to go off without advanced warning, they cannot get sufficient buzz out of life to stimulate and satisfy them. It is only when they possess the power to explode and defuse man's mind and manipulate his emotions that they feel in control of the situation.The nearest explanation I can come up with is that they perceive both pleasure and risk as something akin to having an affair of the heart. It is as though women cannot pass through life and simply enjoy the relationships that come their way for what they offer. Instead, they invariably have this need to view most of the men they go out with as being a project; 'a work in progress.'

Many women, especially Scorpios, relish the risk of their attachment to a 'bad boy', and while it lasts, it is the only thing that gets them up on a morning, gives them something to look forward to throughout the day, and satisfies them at night.

Just as men know women who make great lovers but poor wives, most women also share a similar experience. Where women go wrong, however, is the belief that once they have managed to get their 'bad boy' down the marriage aisle that they can preserve him as being a lifelong 'bad boy' to themselves only, and a 'good man' to everyone else! To such degree do they hope to change him before the wedding cake becomes too hard to swallow and digest. Within a year or two of marriage, they often find that their partner has returned to his traits of old and that his wife has become just one more woman in his life; another female waiting in his line of conquests.

Women are at their most fragile and their romances at their most dangerous when all they want is 'to be loved and wanted'. At this stage of their life, they are quite prepared to exchange what the man wants physically for what they crave emotionally.

Women have always found something attractive about mystery, especially when it is attached to danger. Because 'bad boys' don't play by the rules in the 'love stakes', this gives them a distinct advantage and enables them to win out more often. There is something about the chase, the falling in love, the total giving of oneself to another that most women find compelling. The 'bad boy' is a man who allows this to happen and knows how to keep it going through an entire relationship, while the woman never knows if she has them or not. That's why the ending of such relationships for women is so emotionally hard to get over after they've invested all they had to give!

In my experience, whereas 'bad boys' may get the first pick of the girls, they never manage to keep them unless they are prepared to change their ways. Trying to change a 'bad boy' into your 'good man' however, is often just too hard for any woman to accomplish. Changing a 'bad boy' can be as impossible as finding an overripe apple on the turn and not expecting ever to taste its rotten side. In such circumstances, there is no future in its keeping. Change is only ever likely to come around when the 'bad boy' is the one who wants to change!

Wise women who love and respect themselves love 'good men' as opposed to 'bad boys.' While their earlier experiences have led them to know that 'bad boys' can be exciting, maturity has taught them that in 'The Love Stakes' it is 'good men' who go much farther and are likely to stay the course.

For some women, though, I guess that the challenge to find a rough diamond, yet see the quality of the gem at its heart will prove irresistible. Few independent women are able to resist a 'bad boy' whom they believe they can turn into a 'good man', especially if they happen to find him at the right time in his life when he doesn't want to be bad anymore. What do you think, Sheila?" William Forde: November 24th, 2016.

https://youtu.be/la1UEieSwB8For some women, though, I guess that the challenge to find a rough diamond, yet see the quality of the gem at its heart will always prove irresistible.

November 23rd, 2016.

23/11/2016

Thought for today:
"One's character is the outline of one's soul.The foundation of your character is your personality; something which lies within the heart of your very being. It cannot be forged or counterfeited. The very thing that makes the person a substance of lasting worth is their character; never the experience encountered. In the experience, one's character may be developed, but only one's response will ever define it. An ass who goes travelling will never come home a horse, but will forever stay an ass!

There have been many opinions expressed upon what it is that goes to make up character; many undoubtedly valid in their rawest truth. I recall as a young man, being blown away by the 'I have a dream' speech of Martin Luther King Junior, where he spoke of one day being able to live in a nation where a person would not be judged by the colour of their skin, but by the content of their character.

I came from Ireland as a child immigrant to England in 1947, a host country where the Irish newcomer was not held in high regard and was often taunted with the label of 'Tinker' and told to 'Go back home' at every opportunity, I very soon came to value the character of my parents, as shown by their responses to the daily circumstances they faced. While one's talents and learning are usually nurtured in peace and solitude, my mother's character was formed in the storm clouds of a migrant's experience.

I will never forget the words of my mum one day when I complained that a neighbour had been disparaging about the country of my birth. Mum said, 'Don't worry about being called names, Billy. They are good people deep down and they are only wary of us because they don't know us. Give them time. Once they get to know us, they'll like us; who wouldn't?' Mum's words told me that there is no time when we disclose our own character so clearly than when we describe the character of another. It was Ralph Waldo Emerson who said that anyone's opinion upon another is no less than a confession of their own character.

One of my friends with whom I grew up with on the estate where I lived was called Brian. Brian was a quiet person who never got into fights or arguments. He was a friendly chap who always seemed happy to go along with the rest of the gang. Despite being hopeless at all manner of sport, Brian always loved to take part. It was he who effectively taught me that to participate was more important than to win. Whereas the way a person plays a game shows some of their character, the way a person copes with losing, shows it all!

There are far too many individuals in the world today who over-concern themselves what others think of them. My advice would be to be more concerned with your character than your reputation, because character reflects who you are, whereas reputation is merely what others think of you.

My deceased father was most certainly a man who had 'character' in spades. While he left school to work for the family as soon as he became 13 years old and received little formal education, he was greatly respected by all of his peers. He effectively reminded me through being the man he was, that while knowledge may give one power, respect is only given to those with character. I will never forget him being the only miner from his pit in Birstal to walk through a picket line of striking work mates during the early 1950's when his children were young and his family increased in number, year upon year. His character enabled him to be prepared to put the welfare of his family before his pride and to incur the wrath of his work mates of being thought 'a scab'. This was an action that I later came to greatly admire, despite becoming the youngest textile shop steward in Great Britain at the age of 18 years and bringing over 300 men and women out on the first strike that the firm of Harrison Gardeners in Hightown had since it opened a hundred years earlier.

When we observe people of power in Government Office today, seldom do we see a politician who is prepared to act against their own vested interest for the benefit of the majority. Even those politicians who reached the highest office and whose actions have entered the history books; even they are often prepared to do the very thing that will attract them the most votes, whether it is the right or wrong thing for the country at the time!

It was Abraham Lincoln who believed that the best way to test a person's character was to give them power. While I see what Lincoln was getting at, I have always believed that true character never lies in the spotlight and that the measure of a person's character can best be seen in what they would do if they knew that they'd never be found out. So I'd prefer to stick with my description of character than that of the great Lincoln and continue to believe that true character is doing what is right when nobody else is looking." William Forde: November 23rd, 2016.

November 22nd, 2016.

22/11/2016

Thought for today:
"The newspapers and other media constantly inform us that in the field of education, girls learn much quicker than boys do today, yet neither female nor male learn half as well as pupils of the past, did.

Having been schooled between 1948 and 1958 (mostly in a Catholic school), before I commenced work in the mill, I have a few ideas as to why this might have been so in some respects but not in others. From a purely psychological viewpoint, there is much more for a boy in a modern classroom to be distracted by today than in my time. I can honestly say that all of my female teachers were far stricter than the male teachers and they both dressed, looked and performed much differently to the female teachers in today's classrooms.

It will always be disputed whether pupils are as learned today leaving school as they were in my time. Unfortunately, despite one's own personal views, there is no definitive answer. Education is, in its content, purpose and delivery, much different today than in the 1950's because it served a different time and generation and cannot, therefore, be compared 'like for like'.

In 1951, 'A-levels' were introduced as a standardised post-18 qualification that replaced the 'Higher School Certificate.' Were I to compare an 'A-Level' Examination Paper from 65 years ago with one today in almost any comparable subject, there is no doubt that it was harder to get a pass then it is today. To achieve a pass then depended upon the ability of the pupil's mind to store, absorb and reproduce facts and figures. Today, in some subjects, examinations papers are filled with multiple choice answers for the tested pupil to choose from, whereas in my day, one had to find their own answer.

There are many modern day educationalists who argue that the old-fashioned method of learning by 'rote' involved developing the memory of the pupil and reproducing such details accurately under examination conditions, whereas today, a greater emphasis is placed upon the ability of the pupil to understand what the mind takes in and its relevance to modern day life.

Educational traditionalists will be quick to point out that before they attended 'First School', they had been taught to read a child's book, write their name and recite their times' table up to 12x3, whereas today, there are some pupils who enter 'Secondary School' without adequate literacy and numeracy skills. There are also millions of people over the age of sixty who are still able to mentally calculate quicker in their heads than their children can achieve by use of a computer.

Yet, were I to present an old timer who was tops at arithmetic at school in their day, to sit a modern day maths examination alongside one of today's pupils, I very much suspect they might come a poor second in the rating. There is a world of difference between what we knew as 'Arithmetic' in the 1950's and what comes under the title of 'Mathematics' today!

Whichever side the argument favours, the one thing which is common to the advancement of pupils then and now is the quality of the teachers! Where there is a significant difference in both good and bad teachers, whether they be teachers in 1950 Great Britain or the Great Britain of 2016, it is in their methods of teaching where any meaningful distinction may be found.

All good teachers start with providing conducive conditions where learning can take place. That is why, good teachers always start where the pupil is coming from. If the teacher acts as the captain of their learning vessel, they may not be able to direct the wind, but they can adjust the sails to make all the pupils in their class feel included. If the pupil's dream is to one day navigate the globe, the task of the teacher is not to direct their passage but being able to show them the map of discovery.

Most of us will have some teacher in our background who had a profound expression on us at a crucial stage of our lives by something they said or did or even in the manner of their teaching methods. Mine was a teacher called Mr. Paddy MacNamara, a sports teacher at 'St Patrick's Roman Catholic School' in Heckmondwike, where I attended between the ages of 6-11 years. I was very fortunate to have been a very bright pupil from the age of six years upwards and was rarely positioned less than first or second in my class, whatever the subject. Being from a poorer background, I hadn't been brought up with books in the home, with the exception of the Bible. Before my twelfth birthday, I incurred a traffic accident that left me with severe injuries and kept me in Batley Hospital for almost nine months. While many of my school mates visited me in hospital, Paddy MacNamara was the only teacher to regularly do so.

Mr. MacNamara recognised gaps in my education yet sensed that I was much more intelligent than I believed myself to be. He essentially believed that unless I was able to appreciate how far I could go in life, I'd never know how far to stretch myself. Consequently, he arranged for me to be Mensa tested in Batley Hospital. The tests revealed my I.Q. to be 142, which is pretty high. That knowledge alone boosted my desire to learn more than any other single act by any previous teacher had ever done. I must point out that one's assessed I.Q. level is not an indication of intelligence level as many people think, but reflects that a different reasoning and learning/thinking pattern of the brain that distinguishes itself from the norm, exists in the person of higher I.Q.

As congratulations for my test results, Mr MacNamara presented me with the first book I ever owned. I have read thousands of books over the years besides having written a few dozen, but I'll never forget that book called, 'Terror in the Quicksands.'

Although the school's sports teacher, like may of the teachers of his day, Mr. MacNamara also taught other academic subjects. He was a man who possessed the capacity to make learning easy and where other, more academically trained teachers relished in explaining complexity, Paddy MacNamara revealed the simplicity of the subject being learnt. He was also one of the few teachers who never handed out additional work to do after school hours. After leaving his class, I always went home with something to think about besides homework! A teacher can affect one's whole life; they never know how far their influence takes another or where it stops. In later years, I discovered that Mr. MacNamara had left the formal teaching profession to join some Holy Order.

Another teacher, who I will not name, would lose her temper in every lesson when she discovered someone talking, not listening to her or with their head down. She would first scream and shout and would either send the offending pupil to the head for caning or alternatively throw her wooden blackboard rubber at them or whatever else she held at the time. I was not the only one to be hit on the head by one of her flying missiles. Whenever she achieved a 'bull's eye' with her missile throwing, she would loudly pronounce, 'I am much more than your teacher; I am the one placed on this earth to awaken you!"

It is true that many of our teachers, parliamentarians, bank managers, civil servants and other workers today do not command the respect of their audiences as they once did. As a holder of one of the Queen's awards, I would stop handing out medals and knighthoods to the hobnobs who do no more than what they receive ample payment for, and instead, give deserved recognition to all the good teachers in the land who truly 'make a difference' to the lives of their pupils. The beautiful thing about learning is that no one can take it away from you. Anyone who does anything to help a child emerge into the adult of their potential is a hero/heroine in my book and is deserving of all the recognition society can heap upon them. God bless you, Mr MacNamara, for recogising in me what there was to bring out." William Forde: November 22nd, 2016.

November 21st, 2016.

21/11/2016

Thought for today:
"I came across this image yesterday when I was looking through my old photo albums. It is a photograph of my Irish grandfather and grandmother Fanning, and though I have a few snaps of them, this picture is one of my favourites. It is how they first appeared to me and how I will always remember them, having been born in their home in Portlaw, County Waterford, where I lived for the first five years of my life.

My grandparents were plain folk of basic education; well known in the village where they lived and highly popular with their neighbours, parish priest and the nearest publican. They spoke as they saw, did as they felt proper, carried no airs and graces and were greatly respected in their church and community. Although a Catholic couple from cradle to grave, their daily contributions to the saving of their souls were one Our Father, five Hail Mary's, a bottle of stout and forty Woodbines.

While my grandparents no doubt expressed their love and affection for each other in the privacy of their bedroom on a night, they were never seen to be demonstrably affectionate to each other in public. They'd parented seven children who lived, of which my mother was the oldest. No doubt, by the time their first grandchild arrived on the scene (myself), all thought of love's first passion had long past.

Grandmother was the most dominant of the two. Anywhere inside the household was her realm, which she ran to her rule and satisfaction. My grandfather's kingdom and holy ground upon which no woman's foot ever trod was his shed out in the backyard where he worked most days repairing bicycles and mending punctures for the villagers, and his large strip of garden, immediately beyond the shed. Even the area of his garden was bordered by a six-foot-high hedge surround and had an old door as an entrance that was always locked to keep granny and the world out. When he stepped foot back inside the house, my grandfather usually did as grandmother said, and when she said it! When he strongly disagreed with her, they never argued; instead, he would go for long daily walks accompanied by his packet of Woodbines. Because grandmother was not allowed to enter his working shed under any circumstances, if she wanted to tell him something, she initially had to tell him through a locked shed door.

Granddad was a quiet man of very slim stature. He was very thoughtful and avoided all manner of argument and dispute. As a young man growing up in the heart of rebel Ireland, he was 'on the run' for a number of years before a heart attack in his early twenties brought him back to a more settled life of marriage and raising a family of eight children (one of whom died at birth). In many ways, some might think my grandparents an odd couple, him with his svelte like body and elegant looks, and she, looking like a lost sister to Arthur Lucan's character of Old Mother Riley.

My grandmother was a weighty, buxom woman, who had a big nose in the centre of her face that you could hang a kettle on. All day long she would bake soda bread on a big, black range and eat half of it as soon as it was baked, whereas granddad never ate much and was as thin as a rake. Granddad's contribution to the family table were potatoes, kale and cabbage; all produce he grew in his back garden and tended to, whenever he wasn't mending bicycles. The only thing the family ate on most days of the week was mashed potatoes and either kale or cabbage mixed together, which the Irish call Colcannon. To finish off, we would then have the remainder of the soda bread that grandmother hadn't eaten during the day, spread thickly with salty butter.!

For fifty years after his heart attack in his early twenties, granddad was unable to undertake any heavy manual work. So he did what he could to survive. Between 9.00 am and 4.00 pm, Monday to Friday, he could be found in his working shed behind the kitchen, mending bicycles for the cyclists of Portlaw. Two things always fascinated me about this occupation of his; the method of payment he received for his work and my grandmother's constant supervision/surveillance of him. While the working shed was his kingdom, to which he locked his door once he entered, he still never managed to prevent my grandmother from being able to see what he was up to or to stop her pestering him.

Whenever granddad repaired someone's bike, occasionally he might be paid in coppers, but in the main, it would be a packet of Woodbine cigarettes, a cabbage or a pound of fresh butter. I can still recall my mother telling me once that one person paid him for his labour with pigs trotters! He would always accept all manner of goods as payment for his labour, much to my grandmother's constant annoyance, with one exception; soda bread. It would have resulted in the breakup of his marriage had he ever accepted another woman's baked soda bread that was offered as a cyclist's currency, as grandmother would eat no food that she hadn't baked herself on the range and neither would she allow her husband to! She always said that were she ever to get food poisoning, she'd rather be poisoned by her own hand than the cooking of another woman

When my grandfather first erected his working shed for the purpose of his bicycle repairs, Grandmother made him turn it around so that one of the two windows behind his work bench faced her kitchen window. He would work between 9.00 am and 4.00 pm daily, throughout which, grandmother would always keep an eye on him, just in case he had another heart attack. Granddad also made up lots of useful gadgets. He was more or less, the Keith Robinson inventor of Portlaw. Between the kitchen window and his shed, a long piece of rope was attached to a pull cord at each end with a bell suspended from its washing-line centre in the back yard, half-way between his shed and the kitchen. This enabled each to attract the attention of the other, should they need to. Grandmother would simply pull the cord to communicate that the mid-day meal was ready and he would pull the cord to make his regular request, 'Make me a cup of tay (tea) woman with six spoons of sugar!' Whenever my grandmother served him with his cup of tea, because she wasn't allowed to enter his shed, she had to leave it outside the shed door, which he would retrieve once he saw her back inside the kitchen. Grandmother always said that he had a secret stash of cash in that old shed, along with the identity of traitors he'd shot while 'on the run.'

Despite having six children still living at home, plus myself, somehow we all managed to sleep by the males and females doubling up and sleeping top to tail. Every night, when my grandparents went to bed, we would hear them talking about what they'd done that day as they smoked their last Woodbine. As they spoke, they each looked up at the ceiling and allowed their eyes to rest on their homely heaven that my grandfather had created just after they'd started married life in the house. Over many years, granddad had painted all the ceilings in the house blue and had painted in hundreds of golden stars to gaze at. One always knew when my grandparents were ready for sleep, as they gave each other a loud, sloppy kiss that I always listened for.

My grandparents were Irish Nationalists in their politics through and through. In the narrow corridor of their house were hung over twenty photographic portraits of Irish rebels who'd been born between the mid 19th century and the early 20th century. Occupying the central and most prominent position of their 'rogues gallery', was a framed photograph of their hero, Kevin Barry. Kevin Barry was the first Irish Republican to be executed by the British after the leaders of the 'Easter Rising' were sentenced to death for their part in an operation against the Crown that resulted in the death of three British soldiers. Following his hanging, Kevin Barry became an Irish hero and it is a recognition of how well he was regarded by the Nationalist supporters that they wrote a ballad about his part in the 'Easter Rising' that is 6 minutes and 38 seconds long. It is the longest recorded song I ever heard in a world where early records were never longer than three minutes. One of the few luxury possessions that my grandparents owned was an old gramophone which I used to love winding up and playing the only vinyl record they had to play on it; the 'Ballad of Kevin Barry'. For any non-Irish reader who wants a potted history of the 'Easter Rising' in 1916, it is well worth a six and a half minute listening.

My grandparents remained staunch Irish republicans until the day they died, within weeks of each other at the age of 75 years. Ever since they could vote, they would always travel 100 miles by train to Dublin at election time to cast their vote for the Irish revolutionary leader and statesman. Eamon de Valera (1882-1975) who served as Prime Minister and later as President of the Irish Republic (1959-73).

I once recall me, mum and my two oldest sisters being taken into the seaside resort of Tramore in County Waterford by my grandparents. My grandparents stayed in the pub drinking and smoking Woodbines all day, while mum and the three children on holiday with her went on the beach. The place was as busy as Blackpool during the height of the holiday season. When mum asked grandmother where we would meet up later, she replied, 'Oh, don't worry your head, girl. We'll be around somewhere. I'm sure you'll find us in one of the pubs!' Tramore had over one dozen pubs at the time, and we did!

The one thing that the English will never understand about the Irish is their ancestral connections that bind blood with bones. Take the pub in Tramore for instance, where we left my grandparents that day, or for that matter, any pub in the 26 counties of the Republic. While there, within five minutes of their arrival, they had struck up a conversation with a number of strangers. Within fifteen minutes of drinking, talking and chain smoking Woodbines, they would always have found someone with whom they shared a close or distant relative that ancestrally bound them! I could never get my head around, and neither could they explain this peculiarly Irish phenomenon of finding a relative beneath every bed one looked under! It can only have come about by much interbreeding between consenting colleens and boyos over the past century. All I can testify to is that walk in any Irish pub and somewhere you'll find a relative in the pack, if you speak to enough folk long enough!

When my grandparents died, so did a part of me. They represented much more than blood and bone to me; they were the green grass and the soil of this blessed Ireland I was born into and have loved ever since. I will never forget them, and when I die, instructions are left to bury part of my ashes with them in their Irish grave, along with the English grave of my parents and the memorial site on Haworth Moor of my wife Sheila's deceased husband. God bless my grandparents who first taught me that there's no place like home, especially if one's first home was at grandma's house." William Forde:November 21st, 2016.

https://youtu.be/ysH86MMwPs8