Seven Days

A FEW years ago, I wrote a column that mentioned my old music teacher. The piece was not entirely complimentary, and my then editor suggested I change the name of this person. Just in case.

"Of what?" said I, always ready to challenge authority and, like the Lone Ranger, eager to right wrongs. "In case she's aged 106 and living in a rest home in Malvern," said the boss, giving me a look that said his decision was final. So the name was changed to avoid a libel writ homing in like a Scud missile on Hylton Road.

Believing him to be a trifle over-cautious, I had no qualms whatsoever the next time I had cause to refer to my schooldays. I not only named my former headmaster, but also repeated his nickname several times in the manner of someone who's never quite grown up. It was 'Stench' ... tee-hee!

However, I hadn't reckoned on the perils of the internet. I never, for one moment, imagined that a man called Staveley - who was in his early 40s when I was 11 - could possibly still be alive. So imagine my amazement when I received an e-mail from Son of Stench.

It transpired that not only had this gentleman discovered one of my pieces floating about in the ether - complete with numerous 'Stench' references no doubt - but that his venerable father had just turned 89.

It turned out that the son was a contemporary of mine back in the Rugby days, although I was not aware of him at the time. Still, we went to the same coffee bar, cinema and so on. Consequently, there was much to talk about.

Peter Staveley ventured that he hoped his dad had not caned me. Sadly, I was obliged to inform him that pater had often rendered my backside to the consistency and appearance of braising steak.

It just goes to show that in this age of instant communications, you never know who is out there, poised to trip over a chunk of cyberspace debris from another galaxy in time. So, just remember this - no one can hear you scream in space.

A-peeling treats for pets

TODAY'S a special time for the family rabbits, namely Peter St John Makepeace and Edward Wilberforce Phillpott.

Thanks to Mr Fox, we're down to two bunnies these days, but I don't hold grudges for long. This being Christmas, I'm prepared to forgive our russet-coated neighbour who lives just nearby in the grounds of Worcester's South Bank Hospital.

When the children were small, I used to relate the old folk tale of how all the animals in the world knelt and prayed once the clock struck midnight to usher in the great day. It's an old story, with its origins lying somewhere in the murk of Dark Ages, no doubt.

Tomorrow, after opening their presents, the boys will be treated to a festive lunch of carrot and parsnip peelings, plus broccoli stumps, to be finished off with a wafer-thin slice of cheese. It must be cheddar, nothing else will do.

All I can say is, don't abandon your responsibilities to your pets this Christmas - there's plenty enough misery in the world.

What the Ekland is that?

I DO hope Swan panto star Britt Ekland has managed to talk some sense into that bad-tempered microscopic pooch of hers. But with Jack and the Beanstalk still to run for another five days, I realise that this particular hound may still be in a fractious state of mind.

What species is it, by the way? The creature appears to be a hybrid - perhaps a cross between a corgi and a gerbil. Or maybe he or she is merely the result of an experiment that has gone horribly wrong.

However, my great fear is that now hunters have started using golden eagles, one might suddenly swoop on our miniature Muttley as he trots across Pitchcroft.

Of course, poochie would only make a mouthful. All the same, be careful Britt - it's behind you!

Film plays games with the facts

THE latest slab of what appears to be more Hollywood-isation of history is now at a cinema near you. Merry Christmas purports to be the true story of how British, French and German soldiers all got together 91 years ago today to have a game of football and so send a message to generals and politicians.

This is a subject close to my heart, for I have travelled to the Christmas truce field on numerous occasions. I first became interested years ago when I discovered that Captain Bruce Bairnsfather - creator of the Old Bill cartoon character and witness to the truce - was born and brought up near where I used to live.

Bairnsfather resided in various parts of Worcestershire after the First World War, but originally hailed from Bishopton, a hamlet near Stratford-upon-Avon. He was serving with the Warwickshires near Ypres when the British and Germans famously met in a frozen field near Ploegsteert Wood.

However, there is little evidence of French fraternisation. With memories of the war of 1870 still fresh in their minds, any show of friendliness was considered out of the question. But crucially, the football match took place in Belgium, miles from any poilus. The introduction of troops who were nowhere near spoils it for me.

Hunting with birds is really beyond me

SPEAKING of hunting, I suppose enormous raptors will be circling the skies come Boxing Day, intent on finding a fox or two.

I must admit, all of this is completely beyond me. It strikes me as utterly bizarre why anyone in their right mind would want to go to such lengths to kill a small member of the dog family.

But all this faffing about to get around a law - maybe I'm missing something.