A tree is for life, not just for Christmas!

While glancing at the credits at the end of Masterchef on TV one evening recently, the words ‘sustainable fish list’ caught my eye, causing me to rush to Google. This latest fad is seemingly the aquatic equivalent of advising us to ‘drink responsibly’ and is designed to make the consumer feel guilty buying perfectly legal everyday things in a bid to save a planet that they are unable to manage. On the BBC website, an extensive list of endangered fish includes just about everything that can swim underwater. Cod, haddock, salmon, prawns, tinned tuna, they are all up there on the no-no scale, turning our every seafood meal into an ecological disaster. And woe-betide us if we dare to push the boat out with halibut, sole or monkfish. We might as well break into the Sea-life Centre and machine-gun all the dolphins! Towards the end of the list, though, we do get a little respite in the fact that we could, should we wish, eat Gurnard or squid as a sustainable substitute. Excuse me, what’s poor old Bernard the Gurnard done to get itself on the hit-list? Isn’t the thing unfortunate enough to look like something from a Ridley Scott movie, without us chasing it around the high seas just so we can brag about how ‘cuisinely responsible’ we are being. And as for squid, well thanks. Why don’t I just eat my dog’s rubber bone and be done with? What a load of pollocks?

And then there is all the political nonsense with the damn Xmas tree. How dare we chop down a poor defenceless tree minding its own business in a forest in Scotland? You villainous axe murderer, you! You should have bought one in B&Q for three hundred quid, made of plastic by slaves in a third world country earning sixpence a year, and then keep it until the end of eternity in the attic. Where’s the economic advantage in that?! Surely a fresh one every year creates far more jobs, as well as doing wonders for the vacuum cleaner industry?  A tree is not for life, it’s just for Christmas!

Isn’t it quite amazing the things you discover when you are not looking for them? A crumpled business card turned up in an old coat pocket for a contact I have been trying to track for ages. Then I accidentally learn that Wendy and I are both self-confessed oenophiles  - the scientific name for wine-lovers, apparently. Lastly, but much more to my horror, that no words in the English language rhyme with month, orange, silver or purple. This I found out while writing up some verse recently – 200 verses to be precise, all about a small lamb called Daisy Death-Wish. Despite being a writer for nearly 4 years, the English language still never ceases to amaze me, unless of course it is written by Americans who can’t spell!

And while on that subject, I recently bought a new laptop running Microsoft Windows 8. And it is crap. Nothing works like it did before, everything is American - and I can’t even get my emails anymore! The reason for the latter is that I now have extra built-in security to protect myself from acts of terrorism, whether I want it or not. It’s no longer satisfactory to be myself and let other people send me mail. No, Norton-Macafee-FortNoks will all need to read my mail first and send it via the FBI in case it contains coded messages that might endanger the US military! Except that they won’t understand my English spelling when they skeptically analize my humor! Incidentally, the American language even has a variation of the English word mediæval which I find quite amusing, as while the British were busying themselves during that period with marauding and beating peasants, Americans were still living in tree-houses!

I wish it could be Christmas every day....

My dog, Louis, is not clever – this is a known fact. So when he starts jumping up and down at 2pm in anticipation of his dinner, which he never has until 6pm, I do my best to console him about the impending 4 hour wait. By 5pm, he reaches fever-pitch, and spends the next hour barking at the cupboard door. But then the real problem arises in that he wolfs it down so fast that it is over in 5 seconds and the only thing he has left to look forward to is breakfast.

This is very much how I view Christmas – as a nation builds such deranged expectation on one day full of woeful anti-climax.

So, I have an idea.  Why don’t we have Christmas every 3 months? Or even make it a monthly event. Let’s face it, its religious anchoring has long been lost in the annuls of greed. With enough back-handers, I am sure the Conservative party could swing it through parliament. That way I wouldn’t have to scream when the whole TV gets taken over by Xmas adverts for things that I don’t want, as they would be on all year round and I would surely get used to ignoring them!  Simon Cowell could rehash endless Christmas number ones while we just wheel out the fake tree and some tinsel each third Monday in the month, grab a turkey sandwich and a glass of Astpi for lunch, and then get on with our lives, safe in the knowledge that it was not really worth getting excited about! The BBC could show repeats of everything we saw last month on a looped tape and the Queen could tell us that it was a tough month but the next one would be much better if we all spared a thought for those in poorer parts of her Empire. Then, if we chose to ignore the whole thing and hide under a blanket, nobody would get too upset, as there would always be next month’s to look forward to, along with three weeks of turkey curry. That’s where you’ll find me, anyway.

On the subject of TV ads, which tends to be my bugbear this time of year since the winter drives me indoors, am I the only one who fears that product placement has gone way, way too far? It seems that some companies no longer just have advertisements between the programmes but actually have programmes of their own. Yes, BBC4 have stooped to a new low, by giving high street stores their own shows, in return for large sums of money. In fact one despicable store, whose name I refuse to patronise even in this modest publication, has its own whole TV series, which it can use for as much product placement and self promotion as it wants. Ok, yes, I did watch half an episode, just so that I could rant about it! On it we see its marketing department and sleazy managing director trying to raise themselves and their products back out of the gutter after being caught peddling horsemeat to a whole nation for 20 years. Is there no longer a ruling body that scrutinises this stuff? Instead of being allowed to redeem themselves from such a dastardly and despicable act on national TV, Fridgeland (name changed to protect the polar ice cap) should have been closed down immediately and their MD thrown in jail. Whatever can we expect next? Will Fred Goodwin be offered a weekly show discussing the benefits of pension investments? Or Myra Hindley presenting children’s hour! It’s all gone too far.

By the time this goes to print, we are expecting once again to be in Scotland, suffering quietly from tinselphobia in our bolt-hole by the sea. This year, we have exchanged the tiny drafty cottage that we used to rent for a newly built, if somewhat soulless, apartment in a new built block, near the famous Muirfield golf course. It has gas central heating and all singing toilets which, for some reason, sound like HMS Ark Royal arriving through the fog every time they are flushed. My local plumber says we need to replace the shu-shu valve, but I reckon he may be taking the mickey! In fact, he probably has a mate on the counter at the nearby Know-it-All superstore waiting to ridicule me when I pop in and ask for a new one, so he can announce it over the tannoy and the whole 40 acre shop-floor can share in my shame.  I can hear him now: ‘..the gentleman on till number 5 is looking for a new shu-shu valve, could an assistant please bring one over, along with some left-handed spanners and a glass hammer…!’

As well as being warm - and handy for the golf course and pub - this flat also has another advantage, from a female prospective anyway: FIREMEN. Lots, and lots of them, all rushing around with their sultry good looks and long hoses, right outside our window. Why is it that us men never cotton on to the whole picture, when devious women are concerned? The fact that the block is situated right next to Scotland’s fire college never even crossed my mind, as Wendy enthusiastically signed the purchase deeds. I was hoping for a few quiet months, in which to get some writing done - but no. Now all her mates frequently pop in for coffee, and then shamelessly ogle out of the window, giggling. It’s disgraceful! Would I do the same were it opposite, say, the ladies beach-volleyball training camp? Too damn right! At least the location does present one advantage: When we are back south in the summer, I am considering renting the apartment out to ladies-of-a-certain-age through an advert in Harper’s Bizarre!

I AM John Sharpe

It’s that time of year again, where the daylight goes unnoticed and sleep is rare, while I am tucked away in my little bothy, hammering on the keys. Yes, National Novel Writing month is here again and, once again, I have decided to take part in this global event. Every one of us hundreds of thousand of wannabe writers have their reasons for needing to knock out 50,000 words in one month, each as valid as each other. Mine is quite simple. Currently my day job consists of research and writing for 8-10 hours per day, while I compile a massive history book, on a two year contract. With that and running this old farmhouse, it tends to leave little time for much else, except, of course, drinking.  With a project of that size, I find myself immersed into my own world, day and night, a personal world where nobody else would either understand or care what it entails. I am alone in there - just me and a whole bunch of cows.

So NanoWriMo offers me an escape to another world, although perhaps still not the real one. Now, I have to be someone completely different. Many years ago I did some acting and, to play a part well, you have to image yourself on that person, and become them for as long as the show runs. I feel the same about writing a novel. In the past, most of my 15 or so novels have been fiction, where the mind can run free and the central character does what I tell him to. In fact, in many cases, the protagonist takes over and skips happily through the story, while words appear on the pages as if by magic. But this year is a little different, as my story is a true one, waiting to be told or, at least, dramatised. This is the first time I have ever done this and am finding it damn hard. As the protagonist in real life has since died, and I have only sketchy details of him, I discover that the only way to bring him to the page is to don his shoes and coat, and be John Sharpe for a month. And he is very much, most definitely, not me!

Quiet, calm, clever, resourceful...need I go on, when I describe all the things I am not? Being someone else takes total dedication, probably twice as much as knocking out 50k words of fiction. Each morning, I have to pull on the mask and transform, not unlike Spiderman, except not as exciting and with baggier clothes. My partner thinks I am bonkers as my voice changes to broad glaswegan, my walking pace slows, and I stare at nothing much, saying even less. My dog has since disowned me and visitors think they have the wrong house. Today is day 4, and I am just starting to wake up with the same dreams that I think John Sharpe, an engineer from Aidrie, would have; ones where he achieves his objective of building and flying his own aircraft. Although he is not me, I have come to like him.

Only now we are one, can I proceed towards the goal of this exercise and get his story written, as it needs to be, within the allocated timescale. It will probably only sell one copy, to his grandson, but who knows, he might send it to the BBC so that the man can be immortalised in cellulite.

Strange, really, for once writing a book for an unselfish reason.

Flock all on TV

Oh dear, winter is rapidly approaching and with it that dreaded two letter device designed to suck out our brains and replace them with lemon-curd. This autumn, as I plug in the half-yearly redundant TV, I notice it running an update, bringing yet more new channels to its existing list of garbage that supposedly masquerades as intelligent viewing. Not that I have taken the effort to count them, but I reckon we now have well over 100 stations to chose from, but still more keep arriving. What could they possibly fill these with that could be anything different than the ones already there? Surely not more celebrity master-bakers? Or maybe Britain has pointless talent? Possibly some more ecomentalists grandly designing homes from corrugated tin and matchsticks? No? Ladies and Gentlemen, feast your eyes on a brand new series on ITV3 entitled: The History of Wallpaper! You are joking, right? On it, so the narrative says, Professor Steve Boring from the University of Beige Corduroy tells us all about wallpaper from the 16^th century to the modern day, in hour long segments designed to send us to sleep faster that chloroform. Please, please get the flock off our screens (pun intended) before we all die of monotony poisoning.  

Having had a slight brush with HM customs lately, I find myself having to complete a long and complicated form to back-up my overseas habitation while still maintaining my British status. Except on it, right there on line one, I already have an identity crisis, as I am asked my gender from the following list. Mr, Mrs, Miss, Ms, Mx. Excuse me? What is Mx, you ask? Well, apparently it is a new politically correct term for those who no longer wish to be labelled with a gender at all. Think of it as somewhere in that pillow space between man and woman. Is there such a gender as ‘no gender’? Or is it ‘both’ genders, which sure as hell would be confusing when buying trousers! I wrote MALE in caps, just to be sure.  It reminded me of the Blackadder sketch when Baldric announces that his father was a nun. ‘No he wasn’t, Baldric,’ says Blackadder. ‘Yes he was, sir, because whenever he was asked his occupation, he always said ‘None’! ....Oh, well, please yourself!

Once again this month I have to have a pop at Mr O’Leary, that rather greedy owner of Ryanair. A poor old lady sitting next to me recently on a flight, ordered the following from the menu. ‘Buy any fresh sandwich and add chips for only £2.00 – save 50p.’ When the Mx duly arrived with her order, she held out her two quid, only to be told that the price was £9.50. Rather flustered, she fumbled in her purse and handed over a crinkled tenner, until I nobly intervened. ‘Hang on’, says I.’ It clearly states that the ‘meal deal’ is priced at two pounds sterling?’ No sir, you just read it wrong, the two pound was just for the addition of the chips. On further investigation, nowhere on the shiny menu was the real sandwich price listed. This surely must be illegal. But then, so is charging £7 per flight to pay by credit card when it is the only option available. Is this hood really above the law?

Meanwhile, on the other side of the law, here’s something you don’t hear me say, ‘the French Government, I salute you’. This has come about after reading of a new law, which passed narrowly through its corridors last month, in the banning of Mini-miss competitions. For the uninitiated, these are beauty contests which involve girls as young as seven years old parading in make-up and high heels, to be judged on their looks, and often portrayed on tabloid TV stations. Maybe, for once, Les Francais can lead the way into other countries, particularly Britain and the US, doing away with this despicable practice altogether. If only they would ban Johnny Halliday records, our lives would be almost bearable!

Finally, I have to applaud the regression of progress within the British Government, particularly the Indian High Commission in London, who have reverted back from computers to the good old-fashioned typewriter.  So concerned that all their words and documents are being bugged by Americans on anti-terrorism witch-hunts, the Embassy suspects that all its PC terminals are being monitored by Big Brother, and thus are turning back the clock 50 years to the old metal keyboard and tippex. Allegedly, they have also reinstalled an abacus in every office, inter-office communication is now via baked-bean can and string, along with a flock of mail-delivering pigeons that can only communicate in Hindi.

Steady as a Rock

After a summer of circumnavigating Britain and Ireland, coupled with single handedly installing a new septic tank system, and a complete bathroom, then cooking and cleaning for 6 weeks of guests, we finally have managed to get a few days break. Today we are in Spain. We have no dogs, no Brits, lots of local food and little understanding of the lingo – and it is bliss!

Now it is well documented that, shut away in our little corner of the Europe, I have little regard for world news unless it affects me personally. In my well documented opinion, newspapers have two purposes involving fish & chips and kindling, respectively. Thus I was blissfully unaware that ‘call me Dave’ Cameron had been having a wee scuffle with the Spanish over that lump of Britishness, Gibraltar. Until now, that is, as I can just about see the outline of it from the beach where I write. Even then, it brings no surprise, as Britain tends to be at loggerheads with most of Europe over something or other. It appears that ‘concrete-spike-fishing-gate’ as the press have labelled the skirmish – (is it any wonder I don’t read their illiterate rubbish?) - has sparked something more than a slanging match over fishing rights, which is currently blowing up into such a disproportionate political stoochie that now the Spanish government are proposing slightly more indignant retaliation against our efforts to protect part of its coastline. Not content with imposing a go-slow at customs, causing 8 hour queues through its border, they are now making noises about charging everyone fifty quid each to get in, as well as instigating tax investigations into the wealthy inhabitants of the Rock. (No, not Peter Bill, we are talking the Gibraltar Rock!). Still, their ability to throw four-star onto the flames of international embers doesn’t bother me one fig, as it is not a place that holds much interest to me. Until now, that is. Because the b+stards are now taking it out on me, personally, to which I whole heartedly object.

For just one week we are abiding in a comfortable little apartment in the pretty seaside town of Conil de la Frontera, hoping to get some sleep. What it didn’t say in the brochure is that it backs on to the only main road in the area. This in itself would be of no consequence, were it not also the only access to a massive ‘rave’ discotheque, just a mile away, which goes on until 5.30am every night. As this property is owned by Brits, I am convinced there must somewhere be a Union Jack flying over it, as every Juan seems hell bent on loudly singing what I can only guess are freedom songs as they pass our window. Some even revert to blowing their car horns, just as a note of nightly acknowledgement to their fishing birthrights. By day two of no sleep, I have decided to retaliate myself, as any good internationally proud citizen would, and take the law into my own hands. On our roof terrace, I have spotted a reel of hose pipe which, with a little effort, I have now managed to connect to a tap. Aha. Take that, you noisy louts, I whisper, as I cowardly shower them from above. But does that stop their shenanigans? Nay, it does not. In fact, the revelers are now under the belief it is raining and, as this place is as dry as a British Rail sandwich, they are quite pleased with a little precipitation. In fact one well-built young lady is so excited that she whips off her top and starts dancing in the street while her pals all join in with what can only be considered as Spain’s answer to singing in the rain! Ah – maybe I dozed off and dreamt that bit!

Anyway, now the 4 day long fiesta, which happened to be on in this town when we arrived, has ended, I was hoping that a little normality may resume, and the peaceful status quo be restored. Not a bit. Having kept me awake all night, the local government have seen fit to target our apartment once more, this time by digging up that same said main road. I kid you not, at 7am, a pneumatic drill noisier and less tuneful than Status Quo themselves now hammers incessantly away at the tarmac, right under my window. Exactly what their need for a man-sized hole in the middle of the street is, I have no idea, but once again my cowardice comes to the fore, in case it is especially to put me in and smooth over again by siesta time!

I will admit that I am now getting incrementally more psychopathic and, unless I manage just a few zeds very soon, I may do something my family might regret. Thankfully, at last I did find solace on the near deserted beach, with its calming sound of the rolling waves affording me chance to drift off. Except, now the back of my legs are redder than Tiananmen Square on Labour day, and I am barely able to sit down. As I shuffle shamefully home through the dunes, back to where the workmen are jigging about with their jack-hammers as though they have a bad case of ‘St Vitus Dance’, I can detect a chorus of muffled sniggers as Le Ingles passes by in search of some relief via ice-packs and a padded cushion.

To cap it all, I have one more significant problem. To keep down the weight on our hand-luggage on good old Ryanair, who’s intent it is to charge me a million quid fine if I am so much as a milligram over ten kilos, I decided to leave my laptop at home and work from my tablet. Now for those who believe that a tablet is something that can cure a headache, think in reverse. Every time I touch the screen, pictures, icons and strange words appear and my own stuff disappears off into some sacred hyperspace from whence there is no return. When I do manage to type legible words, it converts them into hieroglyphics which are even harder to understand than the local waiters. To type this article, it has taken me nearly 24 painful hours, to the accompaniment of Carlos the Hammer and his pals, and I have threatened the blasted thing with some swimming lessons on an hourly basis.

Why, oh why, did we leave the tranquility of our cosy farmhouse in silent France? There is a saying: ‘the grass is always greener on the other side?’ And it will be oh so wonderful to get home and find some. Maybe I should check out the local dealer who scares the bejessus out of me from the nightly shadows of the street corner and try one of his roll-ups to see me through?!

 Oh, wait a minute; here comes lunch. An aromatic dish of clams and cuttlefish in inky black rice, accompanied by a chilled bottle of local blanco from Cadiz and some cool music, and once again all is right with the world.

Hasta la vista, laptop.

Fake sheep

Anyone want to buy a swimming pool? OK, possibly not, now the British summer has come crashing to a halt, although it is still blazing away here in France. With a house full of guests, including some close family, the old piscine is a major necessity this time of year – when it works. But, sadly, ours doesn’t. Well, I suppose that depends on the job description, as technically it is still a hole in the ground full of water which you can swim in, but unfortunately, in my hour of need, the water bluntly refuses to stay in it. What started out as a pin-hole in the plastic liner has now developed into a massive rip that can no longer be patched up with my bicycle repair kit and thus is leaking faster than a cardboard boat during the sinking season! Aha, says wily old Andy, what if we attempt to pump the water back out from behind the liner. After some clever installation of a recycling pump, this did have a small effect on maintaining the status-quo for a week or two. But now the whole liner has collapsed inwards and is only a fraction away from total disintegration – and an ensuing five figure bill to replace it. Well, not on my wages it won’t be. Methinks I will fill it full of fish instead, so that the guests can catch their own dinner! If they really want a swim, there is always the lake, as one of them accidentally found out late one evening last week.

On the subject of lakes, Wendy and I had a great trip around Ireland last month. Stunned by its beauty, especially in the west, we were stunned further by the weather which topped 30 degrees as we swum in the Atlantic off the Connermara coast. However, once we reached Killarney and the Ring of Kerry, it was more of a stun-gun that was required, as the hotel – and indeed whole town - was packed full of rather large and very loud Americans. Whilst wedging ourselves in a lift – or elevator, as they insist on calling it – full of them, one pointed to Pooper, our scruffy mongrel, and asked in a deafening Texan accent, ‘Is that a Border collie?’ When I admitted that there was a touch of sheepdog in her chequered pedigree, as one, the whole ensemble started chattering away as excitedly as a classroom full of toddlers. It seems that one of the excursions that were lined up for these gross tourists was to a working sheep farm. For ‘working sheep farm’, read, one enterprising farmer with a few dozen old toothless ewes on a couple of acres, who owns a pair of collies. Twice per day an over laden busload of gullible yanks turn up at his gate to listen to his blarney about lambing in mid winter, and rescuing baby lambs from impossible ledges in the snowy distant hills, even though they are only worth tuppence each. Then, as his piece de resistance, with a loud whistle he commands his dogs to round the up the flock, and gather them into the shed, to rapturous applause. The fact that the sheep are as conditioned to this ritual as the tourists are to be robbed in broad daylight completely eludes their collective trans-atlantic brain cell as the whole party swoons with delight. All this entertainment for a meagre tenner per head, - eg a grand a day in Pat O’Malley’s arse pocket, probably in cash – bargain.

Forget fake tan, fake handbags or even fake orgasms, here comes the next pseudo-product to arrive in our shops - fake meat. Yes, the world’s first test-tube burger hit our streets a few weeks ago to much fanfare from the vegan fraternity, claiming that this ‘humanely’ produced mincemeat will save society from itself. Pioneered by Professor Post, an overzealous Dutch scientist, there are claims that genetically engineered fillet steaks could be grown in large buildings on banks of scaffolding, to feed the starving masses. Hoorah? Hmmm?

Well, firstly, one has to question the necessity for such production? It is here where his theory is as thin as a holstein cow. Apparently in a few years time we will be unable to feed ourselves with meat, because the cost of beef production will become too expensive. I have to say that from my standpoint in the agricultural corner this simply means that supply and demand should just push up the retail price. Eg, beef would become more expensive, so that the poor farmer can make some profit for once. If obese Americans are hell-bent on furring up their arteries with hourly quarter-pounders, then perhaps charging them more money for them may be the solution to a massive social problem. Let’s face it, if society didn’t demand the right to eat cheaply so that they can fritter away their earnings on caravan holidays in the Dordogne, le cheval would never have found its way into Tesco’s lasagne.

Secondly, in the same newspaper that Mr Veggie Reporter wrote this one sided argument, which includes such nonsense as – and I quote: ‘rearing animals for slaughter is a cruel practice’, there is another article on a different page condemning the use of genetically modified crops. Has anyone else woken up to the conflicting dispute here?

We are not allowed to improve our cropping system by use of modern science because that would mean fatcat farmers might make some cash, so let’s all take the moral high ground. But we could genetically manufacture fake meat which would inevitably put farmers out of business. Sounds to me like a win-win for the anti agricultural lobby. Come on farmers everywhere, stand up for yourselves and stamp this out before Frankenstein breaks out the ketchup!

Eulogy for the funeral of John Frazier

Wow, how many people? Well, welcome to Rock church, I am sorry you couldn’t all find a seat.

That in itself, purely by the number of you here, it is a fantastic compliment to this man that I will be inevitably unable to surpass in words.

But – please – let me try.

John Frazier.

What a man.

Perhaps the last of his kind.

As the Pastor said, today is not a day of sadness, but a day of celebration. Celebration of the life of a man who made the most of his.

A man born and bred in the parish of Rock - The second biggest parish in England - he was always proud to say that. I am not sure if its true, but it sounds pretty good.

Nearly the last of the elders of this parish too - when it comes to farmers and custodians of the land anyway.

His compatriots, John Whiteman, Bernard Birch, Aubrey Booton, John Nott Bullockhurst ------ they’re all gone too.

Back in the days when Coningswick had yards full of cattle being fattened for market, we heard one morning that his school chum, John Whiteman, had died –

That day Bernard Birch commented, ‘Jack, it looks like they are pulling out of our pen, now!’

Well That pen is pretty much empty today, as the next generation fill it’s stalls..

John Waldron Frazier.

Born at Fernhalls farm in 1925, the youngest of 3 - known as Jack to a select few -  John’s life was set on course to be a farmer from the outset.

Schooled at Rock School – for those who don’t remember it, it stood next to Timberdine house, on the site of – bungalow now – and later at Far Forest.  He had a meagre education, although he often commended the way they taught him maths, something he was always particularly good at. His mother, my granny Kate, recalled with pride how he won the school prize for arithmetic and she was called in to be told of it.

By his teens, a war had started, and he did his bit for this in two ways.

Firstly, he was issued with a standard Fordson and a two furrow plough, which he then proceeded to drive for the next 4 years, ploughing up pastures, some of which had never been turned over in thousands of years, in order to feed the nation. There are not many acres around here that he didn’t pull a furrow through during that time. Perhaps there may have been a few high hedgerows from where a fair maiden might have applauded the excellence of his cops and reams.

And then there was Dad’s army – the Bewdley Home Guard. The tales he told about those days could fill a book in itself. As a young private, he would spend days and nights defending Bewdley from invasion by the hun who might, at any time, approach up the Severn. A platoon full of boys in uniform, too young to make real soldiers, but too old to ignore a world war.

And, of course, he fought - in the battle of Bewdley.

Maybe there are a few here who are unaware of this infamous event?

In 1941, whilst on the lookout for raids by air, one local spotted what he assumed were parchutists falling from the sky over Wyre hill, and sounded the alarm by ringing the church bells.

With bayonets affixed, John and his platoon were despatched to capture the dastardly German paratroopers – shoot to kill if they had to. It was at least half an hour later when it was discovered that what was falling from the sky was not in fact soldiers at all, but straw that had been collected by a small whirlwind and then deposited from a great height. Oh how the shame must have shown in their red faces!

Farming – he enjoyed farming.

As he moved more into the roll of farmer, John was always a man of vision. Events were progressing and consumer demands dictated new methods of production.

You must remember that this was a fast changing period in agriculture. A time that accelerated farming from being a simple way of life, through a family dependant livelihood, to becoming a business that required brains, discipline, rules – and profit.

Chicken farming at fernhalls gave way to fruit growing, as the steeper fields provided gooseberries, blackcurrants, damsons and plums to a starving nation. This in turn, especially during picking time, offered employment to many from the local area, when Dad would drive the cattle lorry each morning to pick up housewives in their dozens from Stourport and Bewdley to reap the harvest.

New Buildings sprung up to house ventures into pork and beef production, with the barley-beef unit at the newly acquired Coningswick farm being far ahead of its time. Innovative crops were grown too, such as peas, beans and even lupins - as he not only embraced, but experimented with new ideas – all the time recording the results, learning, and moving forward.

Tractors – he liked tractors.

I am sure he would have approved of his final journey behind that magnificent Massey Ferguson 135 – courtesy of Dave Bradley.

All his days, right up until recently, he would be out at daylight on his tractor, tilling the soil with tender care. As machines progressed from simplicity to highly complicated, so he would evolve, adapt and learn.

Nick would like it known, that he is missing his tractor driver now – and a lot more advice besides.

John married Val, a vibrant but tolerant person, in 1954, and they remained happily married for some 59 years. A life sentence, some may say. But she never complained, when sometimes farmlife didn’t go according to plan.

Not just a man of vision, John will always be remembered for his eye for quality, in everything that he produced. Pigs and cattle were the mainstay of the farm for many years, every one of them of the highest quality and confirmation - regularly recording the top price of the day at Kidderminster Market. Up to 10 steers per week and a hundred pigs - all bore the Frazier calibre of excellence that had butchers clambering to sell them in their stores.

In order to extend the reputation of quality - steers were exhibited at local shows – something which soon became a passion. During the 70s & 80s, the name of HS Frazier & Son was engraved on dozens of trophies, which annually adorned the mantelpiece at Coningswick. I believe he won the coveted champion of Kidderminster Fatstock show, a commendable  9 times in 10 years.

Sheep – he loved sheep

In fact, It is probably with sheep that many of you will associate John Frazier.

Again, among this species, he was a pioneer. Initially experimenting with breeding Welsh Mules, a cross between a Beulah ewe from the welsh mountains, and an often short-lived Blue Faced Leicester, he would supply breeding stock to many other farmers throughout the Midlands.

Incidentally, For those of you unaware of a Blue Faced Leicester, they are a rather gangly looking creature, with a penchant for dropping dead for no apparent reason. On buying these rams from Builth ram sale, when asked if the vendor would be offering a luck-penny with the sale, one breeder replied, ‘yes, we give a spade away, with every one!’

And so it was, he turned to the Blue du maine, a new breed which was just imported from France. Within a short time, John soon became an expert breeder of these, exhibiting sheep at shows far and wide and retrieving a haul of cups, rosettes and championships.

As you may be aware, the welsh nation is very fond of its sheep, so it will be of no surprise that the Royal welsh show is the biggest sheep show in the world. To win a breed championship there is the pinnacle of any breeder’s career. John Frazier did that, on no less than 5 occasions.

In order to find the very best, the ultimate top sheep, -– a finale is held on the last day of this event, where all the champions get to fight it out for one trophy – the best in show, if you will. The holy grail of sheep breeding.

In 1992, John was a very proud man when the name of HS Frazier & Son was immortalised on that very trophy – a feat that only a few have ever achieved.

His prowess with this breed brought him invitations to judge shows, far and wide, from Bristol to Belfast - Carlisle to Cardiff – Edinburgh to Essex. In fact he has judged at shows in just about every county in England, again an accolade that few can boast. He was also the first - and I believe ONLY - breeder to ever sell a blue du maine sheep back to France. A deal that was done – bizarrely - in a Parisian nightclub. That is to say, he was in the nightclub, not the sheep.

Still on the lookout for yet more quality, the arrival of a new breed took his eye, that of the Beltex - a hybrid sheep from Belgian. Instantly taken with the carcase capabilities of this breed, a nucleus flock was set up at Coningswick - which was soon to set the breed alight. Yet more trophies poured in, as well as top priced animals being sold to breeders far and wide. To this very day, the name of Coningswick lives on in hundreds of pedigrees throughout the land. A testament to a man with a clear vision for quality.

He was once interviewed about his sheep breeding success, and asked what he looked for in an animal.

His reply was simply this: ‘If I can breed a sheep with an arse as big as my missus, that will do for me!’

I think Val might have been out of earshot on that occasion!

Whisky. He liked whisky.

To all of you here, that is no secret. Many of you will have shared a dram with him over the years, be it at livestock shows or in the Bliss Gate or Rock Cross, listening to his stories.

Macallan, that was his tipple.

He was also an avid collector of things. Guns, tractors, walking sticks and books, but primarily whiskies. In fact his unique collection runs into literally hundreds of miniature bottles from extreme areas and unobtainable eras.

That is why, directly after this service, you are all invited back to the Rock Cross, for some light refreshments and to raise a glass to the old bugger.

This was a man who, after all, coined the phrase.

WIN OR LOSE, WE’LL HAVE SOME BOOZE.

Thank you