‘It’s not the Y.M.C.A, it’s the navy’ Rubbish Day

Ooh-Ah everybody. It is entirely the fault of my new online gaming obsession that the mood this week is a little martial. Those are my grandfather’s WWII South African Air force medals. In September of 1939 he left his job as a clerk at the Permanent Building Society and went to war. He joined the first bomber squadron to land in East Africa. As a gunner on a bomber he earned machinegun bullet hole scars along his thigh. As per his own account, he met St Peter twice falling through the clouds from up high. He earned his wings, survived the war in East Africa and Italy and then went back to work as a clerk.

Attention!

Attention!

So, for Geoff, the medals. For his son, my dad, the navy (he was a diver). For me, a fag and the least manly poses imaginable (23 despairs). For the rubbish collectors, a salute (the bin was particularly smelly this morning after a fridge clear out.)

Hello sailor!

Hello sailor!

 

 

My dad warned me about sailors. I appear not to have listened.

My dad warned me about sailors. I appear not to have listened.

It's the navy not the Y.M.C.A. Really!

It’s the navy not the Y.M.C.A. Really!

 

 

 

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About tracyloveshistory

I have an inordinate fondness for a long time ago. I write about history and my family's place in it; clothes, shoes, war, memory, loss and whatever else takes my fancy. I wear red lipstick every second day and I dress up. A lot. Photograph by the extraordinary Ben Skinner at Arwen Garnentry.

2 responses to “‘It’s not the Y.M.C.A, it’s the navy’ Rubbish Day

  1. *applause* Well done, sir,…ma’am… Well done.

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