El Escritor Inglés: 2015

Sunday, November 15, 2015

WWE: A Staged Show

Englishmen of a certain age – mine – remember the nature of Saturday afternoon television three to four decades ago. Prior to 1982, there were just three channels, two of which showed nothing but sport during the prime weekend slot. Perhaps the word ‘sport’ is stretching the word’s definition, particularly between four and five o’clock on the sole ITV option. This hour, before the day’s football results were broadcast, was devoted to ‘professional wrestling’ – men of bizarre shapes and sizes, wearing either speedos or leotards, clunking heads, contorting limbs and generally knocking eight bells out of one another, lapped up by a baying audience. Everyone was knee-jerk partisan; there were great guys, rotten guys and no one really in between. Week after week, I loved it.

Discovering that the whole show was staged was a let-down on a par with learning the truth about Father Christmas. I had never realized that it was simply a pantomime: Laurel and Hardy with intent. (If you smile at the names Johnny Saint, Les Kellett, Kendo Nagasaki, Big Daddy and Giant Haystacks, then you were there.)

Since then, wrestling has ‘evolved’. Now, one of my own sons is as transfixed as I was by the antics of wrestlers, most of today’s being North American. When cajoled to buy tickets (Figure 89.1) for a WWE (World Wrestling Entertainment) event, therefore, I could hardly refuse.

Figure 89.1: WWE Live in Liverpool

Liverpool’s Echo Arena was sold out (Figure 89.2). There were many lads-with-dads, and not an insignificant number of the fairer sex, a good proportion of whom were probably well into their sixties. Proceedings were initiated by a flashy American girl in a sparkly dress, who gave the national anthem as thorough a pummelling as any of the wrestlers would dish out in the ring.

Figure 89.2: Act 1, Scene 1

The stage was set (Figure 89.3). To the sound of blaring techno-music, two pop-eyed meatheads made their way as menacingly as possible to the ring. Each was as wide as he was tall – an upside-down triangle with a head on top – and the (two-way) punishment began without delay. What amazed me as much as anything was the loudness of the bang when their bodies slammed onto the canvas (Figure 89.4) That said, perhaps there were microphones underneath. Staged and scripted the bouts might be, but no one could doubt that these showmen know how to take a good old-fashioned hammering.

Figure 89.3: No photography allowed – apparently.

Figure 89.4: A count of three

Next on stage was a trio of bearded rednecks who looked like extras from Deliverance. They set about their opponents without even waiting for the bell to sound. While two went at each other in the ring, another pair went to work outside it. I felt sorry for the poor referee, whose absurd task was to govern the chaos without hindering it (Figures 89.5 & 89.6).

Figure 89.5: Anywhere else, this would be both illegal and physically impossible.

Figure 89.6: Playing to the audience. Plus ça change ...

Most of the contestants seemed to have long hair, long beards or both. All the more to grab, I thought. After the rednecks came a trio of scary-but-sexy women, followed by some amazing gymnastics courtesy of a hyperactive guy called Kalisto, and a giant toddler who beat his opponent with a stick, then a chair, before the coup de grâce: spearing him, head first, through a wooden table. No wonder Punch and Judy shows have gone out of business.

The show ended at 8 p.m. ‘Mini-me’ had traded every blow and shouted himself hoarse (Figure 89.7).

Serves him right for passing the ‘11+’.

Well done, son xx

Figure 89.7: Easily the scariest duo in the arena

Friday, November 06, 2015

Un Tour Del Bernabéu

Situated in Madrid’s smart Chamartín district is one of the world’s most impressive football stadia. El Estadio Santiago Bernabéu, named after its illustrious former president, opened in 1947 and holds a current capacity of 81,044. Home to Real Madrid, it has staged every major international tournament, including the World Cup (1982), Euros (1964) and four European Cup/Champions League Finals, the most recent being just five years ago.

As with most major football clubs these days, Real offers a full stadium tour to supporters and historians (Figures 88.1, 88.2, 88.3, 88.4 & 88.5). However, what sets Real apart, from all but an elite few, is a trophy cabinet which contains something other than a small carpet. In addition to five consecutive European Cup triumphs, Real boasts more major trophies than any other club in the world.

Figure 88.1: Bernabéu ticket office

Figure 88.2: Stadium tour ticket

Figure 88.3: Tour information leaflet

Figure 88.4: The view from Row Z

Figure 88.5: Stadium model on display

Its current manager, Rafael Benítez, used to live a couple of miles from me – in a much larger house – on the Wirral in England. Our daughters attended the same dancing school, and I found him to be polite and friendly whenever we met. For that reason alone, I am happy to see his club presently joint top of La Liga with their equally famous rivals, Barcelona. The next instalment of El Clásico takes place at the Bernabéu a fortnight tomorrow.

Sunday, September 20, 2015

For 2015, Read 1984

Figure 87.1

Copyright Unknown

Tuesday, September 08, 2015

Fleeting Innocence

Last week, throughout England, children resumed their schooling. Mine include a ‘sixth-former’, anxious at the onset of her crucial pre-university year, and two young boys, one with an imminent ‘11+’ exam (but whose mind is still somewhere on the cricket field), the other full of beans, having won a summer library competition.

I asked the ten-year-old: ‘When you’re older, what do you think will be your fondest memories of schooldays?’

He replied: ‘Walking to and from school with you.’

I was touched by the sentiment. What father wouldn’t be? As he disappeared through the school gates with his brother, I dwelled for a moment on the fact that I know what lies along his educational tracks between now and adulthood, whereas he and his brother are oblivious. Better that way: insight might bring with it disillusionment.

My elder son, like most of his friends, has received fairly intense tutoring for the 11+ test. He knows his preferred school, having toured it and played both football and cricket on its picturesque sports fields. He accepts the challenge laid down to him: pass the exam, and a highly-reputable, 500-year-old grammar school awaits his arrival. What he also accepts, without question, is the archaic 11+ rule which states that his educational future is to be influenced significantly by a one-off standard assessment at the arbitrary age of eleven.

Anyone with the slightest capacity for critical thinking would recognize the absurdity of such a simplistic system. In the 1960s, prominent educationalists acknowledged the potential for irreversible injustice, which often verged on random. Vast swathes of school pupils were either lucky or callously short-changed. So politicians tried to fix it – and made matters worse. The introduction of so-called ‘comprehensive’ schools more or less coincided with the beginning of my own school years. The new ethos was different, diametrically so, but even less rational than its predecessor. Classes were purposefully formed of pupils of ‘mixed abilities’. In other words, a poor soul who was floored by basic arithmetic might find himself (literally) rubbing shoulders with a mathematical genius. Inherent was the discredited Freudian premise that children were ‘clean slates’ with similar innate potential. Separating children on grounds of intellectual aptitude was considered wrong-headed and cruel, as was the self-evident truth that natural abilities were unequally bestowed (Figure 86.1).

Figure 86.1: The 1960s solution to educational injustice

What would be wrong, I used to wonder, with children attending the same local school, but where streaming according to ability, in every subject where practicable, was carried out early on, while leaving room for movement between groups in recognition of varying individual rates of development? For example, consider a pupil who is brilliant at Languages but hopeless at Science. He would be failed by both the segregationist and comprehensive approaches; and so he was.

Predictably, the results were, to be polite, underwhelming. One generation of educationalists lived to destroy all that previous ones had died to create. Bright children were held back; their struggling classmates floundered; and those in the middle were denied the attention to which they were entitled. For half a century now, the educational landscape has become littered with the smouldering wreckage of brainless pedagogical schemes whose implementation should have been curtailed by basic common sense and observation.

Meanwhile, my seventeen-year-old daughter has a different set of conundrums to tackle. What to do next year? University is the obvious choice, despite many modern degrees being practically worthless to employers. Furthermore, after three years, she would leave with a £40,000 debt statement stapled to her degree scroll. Worse still, securing the means to pay down said debt is becoming more difficult by the year. As the country’s population continues to explode (Figure 86.2) – a staggering 350,000 increase last year alone – so does the inevitable competition for gainful employment.

Figure 86.2: It seems strange to me that while environmentalists dutifully promote the concept of sustainability, they remain largely silent on the crucial subject of rampant population growth. Our children will pay the price of their neglect.

A couple of hours from now, I shall set off on foot to meet my two young scallywags at the school gates. They will walk home smiling, banging on about cricket, turning over small rocks in search of worms and woodlice, and claiming to have already forgotten what they had just done in the classroom. May their naïve smiles last a while longer.

Sunday, August 02, 2015

When Cars Weren't Crap

DOUBLE-LENGTH ARTICLE

Friday

I have, true to form, thoroughly enjoyed this week’s Ashes Test match at Edgbaston. The newly-revamped ground, situated in a green (and pleasantly English) suburb of Birmingham, looks better than ever. I know it well, and have watched all formats of cricket match here since my early twenties. On one occasion, fifteen years ago, I took a bus from the city centre on the morning of a Warwickshire County Championship fixture. A mile out of the urban chaos, I noticed a road sign bearing the scrawled graffito: ‘Cars Are Crap’. I was amused, in a curious fashion, and remained so throughout the day’s play. Such an absurd generalization, was it a despairing, middle-finger message from some disgruntled Brummie with persistent motor trouble? Or did it pertain to a specific make of vehicle? Or was it relative: cars are crap, compared with ... buses, bicycles or whatever?

As I write, in anticipation of the third day’s action, on a still and sunny Midlands morning, it is likely that England will defeat Australia sometime before tea, rendering days four and five (Saturday and Sunday) redundant. That being so, I have had to devise some other way of keeping my brood entertained over the weekend. (I shall publish this article if the Test concludes as I predict.)

* * * * *

Saturday

England won the Test, just minutes before the tea break, by eight wickets. They lead the series 2-1 with two matches to play. It was time for Plan ‘B’.

I have sometimes wondered whether vintage car shows are a uniquely British phenomenon. Are any non-Brits – I refer to the male of the species – prone to spending more time with their beloved cars than with their other halves? Maybe some are. Regardless, I admire those that are prepared to nurture their links with the past, and who refuse to ‘upgrade’ simply to satisfy the deceit and desperation of 21st-century sales and marketing spivs. ‘Progress’ can mean the exact opposite. Preservation, for me, beats continual consumption.

Whether this labour of motoring love is peculiarly British or not, the weather certainly was. After spending half an hour sheltering from an unscripted blast of rain under the canopy of a vintage tree, we spent the afternoon inspecting and photographing row after row of immaculate exhibits (Figure 85.1), and, where possible, talking with their proud, and often wonderfully eccentric, owners. In addition, there were food tents, stall exhibitions for enthusiasts (Figure 85.2), and live music courtesy of an equally eccentric bunch of old timers who appeared, and sounded, as though they had just rolled out of the pub.

Figure 85.1: Rolls Royces ’R’ Us

Figure 85.2: The rally was enjoyed by male and female, young and old, and even four-legged enthusiasts.

There were some car models that I had not seen close-up since childhood. The owner of a 1968 Triumph Vitesse lifted its bonnet – the front wing panels are integral to it – revealing a brand new engine (Figure 85.3) which he himself had only recently installed. ‘Third time I’ve rebuilt it,’ he said, with a mixture of satisfaction and disbelief. ‘Only car I’ve ever owned. 450,000 miles and still counting.’ There was not a scratch on it. The chrome was polished like new; the wood-and-leather interior had been preserved to perfection; and even the (original) number plates were blemish-free.

Figure 85.3: Almost too good to be outdoors

Despite the torrential downpour, the show was a hit. My elder son summed up both his feelings and his innocence: ‘Dad, when I pass my driving test, I think I’ll buy an Aston Martin.’

Is it me, or are today’s cars, in comparison, stupendously ugly? There are few elegant idiosyncratic features, and there is neither sleek beauty nor instant recognizability. Post-2000 designs are generally similar, over-rounded, amorphous chunks of paper-thin metal and identikit plastic. On our way to the show, we found ourselves in dense traffic behind a brand new Mini Cooper Clubman. This so-called ‘mini’ vehicle was almost as big, bulky and shapeless as one of those ghastly SUVs. An old version could have fitted inside. The same goes for many other mid-range cars. They seem to have become bigger – perhaps bloated is a more fitting description – over the past decade or two. Funnily enough, though, despite having larger external dimensions, some models are deceptively small on the inside. Thanks to today’s preference for huge wrap-around seats, driving can be like being in a padded cell – strapped in. Modern sports cars are no better. I sat in a £42,000 computer-on-wheels a couple of months ago, and the top of my head scraped against the ceiling. I had to do a ‘Quasimodo’ to see properly through the windscreen; and being no taller than six feet, I am no giant. Compare that with something like a 1970s Austin Maxi – yes, I remember how comically unreliable they were – whose interior was the size of a sports hall.

The major change in recent years, however, involves the universal installation of multiple low-grade computers. I admit, features such as antilock braking systems are advantageous, particularly to poor drivers, but repair costs have skyrocketed. An old friend of mine, proud owner of a tank-like lump of a Mercedes Benz, encountered a minor ignition hitch which cost £600 to put right. As a result of ‘technology’, only a registered dealer had the wherewithal to fix it. Ker-ching!

Another pet hate of mine damns Mercedes, along with German counterparts BMW and Audi. Why is it that front lights must be switched on in broad daylight? Not only that, but they are often xenon-based and intensely bright. Being tailgated by one of those ugly road-monsters seems to convey the message: I am driving a Merc/BMW/Audi, which makes me very important, so you must give way at once! Instinctively, I hold my ground and touch the brake pedal.

Perhaps I am in a minority. Still, give me a 1968 Triumph Vitesse any time.

To demonstrate my point with regard to aesthetics, I have included photographs of a few old favourites (Figures 85.4, 85.5, 85.6, 85.7 & 85.8).

Figure 85.4: 1968 Aston Martin DB 6

Figure 85.5: E-type Jaguar (Year unknown)

Figure 85.6: 1956 Jensen 541

Figure 85.7: 1971 Triumph Vitesse Convertible

Figure 85.8: 1977 Triumph Stag

Monday, June 29, 2015

Stream In The Sky

In 1795, two British civil engineers initiated an audacious project in northeast Wales. Two centuries later, their creation became a World Heritage Site. Thomas Telford (1745-1814) and William Jessop (1757-1834) designed and built the Pontcysyllte Aqueduct, which carries the Llangollen Canal across the valley of the River Dee (Figure 84.1). More than 300 metres in length, it is the longest aqueduct in Britain; and its cast-iron trough stands, on masonry pillars, 39 metres above the river, making it also the tallest.

Figure 84.1: Further information can be found at

http://www.pontcysyllte-aqueduct.co.uk

Last weekend, I took my sons for a long-overdue visit. First, I looked up a long-established firm called ‘Jones The Boats’, whose tree-shaded docks provide a pleasant view from a waterside café. There are passenger narrowboats for hire, catering for 45-minute trips across the aqueduct and back, or more leisurely dinner or party cruises (http://www.canaltrip.co.uk).

With my two young helmsmen perched on the small bow deck, we chugged along the canal (Figure 84.2) which was, in places, only marginally wider than the boat. When the aqueduct itself came into view after a few minutes, I could see that on the left-hand – sorry, port – side was a narrow towpath with nothing separating it from the water’s edge. On the starboard side, there was no barrier at all (Figure 84.3). The water level was only a few inches below the trough rim, and my sons could, and did, lean out and gaze over the edge of the giant bathtub and down into the abyss (Figure 84.4).

Figure 84.2: View from the bow

Figure 84.3: From this angle, the right-hand edge appears to be unsupported.

Figure 84.4: Floating in mid-air? Not as perilous as it appears.

The views were, naturally, spectacular. To the left, peeking through distant woodland and blending perfectly with it, was a Victorian viaduct carrying the Chester-to-Shrewsbury railway. On the (unobscured) right, running beneath us, was the shallow river, a few old stone cottages with characteristic Welsh slate roofs, and much untamed woodland. I could tell that the boys were more than impressed, not least because both maintained a reverent silence as we crossed the sky.

In my experience, having been fortunate enough to have visited more than fifty different countries, this unique trip was admirable for a multitude of reasons. I suppose it was inevitable that, being a scientist, I would find the aqueduct’s functionality as impressive as its aesthetics. Here’s why. An aqueduct differs from a railway viaduct in more than the obvious way. A viaduct, although built on similarly strong stone pillars, experiences variable loading stresses as a train passes across it. Stresses are greatest on those pillars directly beneath the train’s centre of gravity. One of the elegant advantages of an aqueduct is that such stresses remain more or less constant throughout the entire span. Archimedes’ principle states that the boat’s mass on the bridge displaces an equal mass of water off it. Ergo, the combined weight of vessel and water act with unvarying downward force equally on all load-bearing pillars at all times. (Archimedes was more than a mere genius.)

The ‘far’ side of the aqueduct was just as pleasing to the eye. As the waterway gradually broadened out, we turned left in front of a steep, tree-filled terrace, in the middle of which was the bright yellow Aqueduct Inn (Figure 84.5). There, next to a wooden footbridge, we managed to turn the boat through 360 degrees and make the return crossing.

Figure 84.5: The ‘other’ side

Having opened in 1805, it was fitting that on its bicentenary, the Pontcysyllte Aqueduct was formally nominated for UNESCO World Heritage Site status. This jewel of the Welsh countryside was, deservedly, inscribed on the World Heritage List in 2009.

Many thanks to the articulate young female student for answering all my questions.

Wednesday, May 20, 2015

The Silent Go-Karts

Sunday afternoons used to be so quiet. When I was a small boy growing up in rural England, I always knew it was a Sunday simply by stepping out of the back door. There was scarcely a sound from anywhere. There was hardly any traffic. No one really went anywhere, certainly not to work. The clincher, though, was the distant, monotonous droning of two-stroke engines emanating from a karting circuit in the next village (Figure 83.1). There would be crescendo followed by diminuendo, the sharp sound of gears changing, sudden deceleration into the hairpin bend and gradual acceleration after it. I could see the races with my ears.

Figure 83.1: The sound of Sunday many years ago

That was forty-odd years ago. The kart meetings still take place. (I checked it out online.) The tranquillity which made me aware of them, though, is probably long gone. The ultimate reason is, by tortuous logic, usury (or high-interest lending). Allow me to make the connection.

Today, the whole world is hooked on debt. Whether it is government debt, commercial debt or personal/household debt, it can never be paid back. Debt expansion is the only way modern economies can grow, and it is entirely by design. Inevitably, the world has crossed the financial Rubicon, and the fallout from the eventual economic collapse will be severe. In the United Kingdom, for example, current debt interest exceeds the entire Defence budget. By extrapolation, in 2020, it will exceed the Education budget, and in 2025, that of the National Health Service. There is no averting it.

If this disastrous scenario could possibly be avoided, human productivity – with finite resources, remember – would need to increase sharply and continually. We would have to produce more and more in a given amount of time, until we reached the stage of running as fast as possible just to stand still, rather like the Red Queen in Lewis Carroll’s Through The Looking Glass.

This nightmarish eventuality is upon us. The working world now operates seven days a week as a matter of routine. The introduction of Sunday working, with shops staying open, has provided us with an extra dose of time which prior to a generation ago we did not utilize. Forty years ago, when I was a young schoolboy, my own circumstances were considered unusual because my mother worked full-time. Most mothers did not; and yet, households still functioned satisfactorily, and absolute poverty was rare. In 2015, people’s lives have changed, but because that change has occurred gradually, we have been less aware of it. In the majority of modern households, both parents now work, but not out of choice: it is a necessity in order to meet either a huge mortgage/rent or the perpetual servicing of personal debt. We have all but arrived at a point where it is humanly impossible to ‘run’ any faster. We cannot manufacture more time. Nor can we service any additional debt. Checkmate.

How does this affect humanity? A balance of work, rest and play is our natural state of existence. In today’s complex, fast-paced society, this equilibrium is being savagely disrupted, and the stresses it imposes are unprecedented. There is a stark conflict between our frenetic 24/7 existence and a basic physiological need to switch off and rest.

Of course, there are many more factors than I have been able to outline in 600 words. The ‘Red Queen’ phenomenon, when applied to the modern economic structure, is undeniably complex. My main fear, however, is this: in time, the world’s peoples will wake up to the ghastly reality that their increasing efforts will surely prove futile, and that the social and economic system has nothing to offer (most of) them. What will be the overriding reaction when the masses feel they have nothing to lose?

In quiet, solitary moments, I can still hear the go-karts – but my children, sadly, never will.

Tuesday, April 21, 2015

Cash In Peril

Imminent visitors to England could, for health reasons, be forgiven for postponing their trip for a few weeks. True, there are no current epidemics involving viruses, locusts or rabid dogs. The country is relatively safe in that respect. However, there are hoards of another diabolical species presently rampaging the length and breadth of the land, eyes wide and indiscriminately spewing filth from dawn till dusk. It is, of course, the professional politician, infecting the unwary with lies and propaganda in preparation for the forthcoming general election.

On Thursday, 7th May, the British electorate will have its say for the first time since I began writing these posts, this one being the 82nd. Most of what I have heard through the media lately consists of cheap, negative campaigning, often debated with the intellectual aplomb of petulant schoolchildren. The best advice is: don’t listen to what they say; watch what they do and remember what they have done. Another worthwhile tip is to consider what they do not mention. Note the silence on certain issues, for these are often most fundamental to human liberty.

One such subject has drawn no explicit views from any of the political parties. I refer to the plan for the abolition of cash. Over the past decade or two, debit cards have accounted for an increasing proportion of personal financial transactions. Purchasing almost anything, almost anywhere, has become more convenient with a piece of plastic and a chip-and-pin device than a wallet full of banknotes. A cashless society would now appear to be just around the corner – a smooth, natural transition for the good of the paying public. Politicians and bankers are strongly in favour of it.

Perhaps I ought to reiterate that last sentence: politicians and bankers are keen to establish a cashless society. Cui bono? Is it for the public’s benefit, we are entitled to wonder, or for their own? Precisely: the alarm bells should be deafening us all.

If cash becomes obsolete (Figure 82.1), as has almost become the case in Sweden, what are the most significant consequences? I can think of two, and neither is anything less than terrifying. First, the individual’s bank would have complete authority over all funds held therein. In other words, a mere flick of a remote switch would be enough to cut off access; and the reason might be malicious, unlawful, accidental or simply arbitrary. The banks would be as omnipotent as parents in charge of their offspring’s pocket money – but without benevolence, compassion or leniency.

Figure 82.1: The evolution of a cashless world

An even more daunting prospect is that every transaction between any two parties, however trivial, would be registered and thus potentially subject to scrutiny. Moreover, given that the British government has recently proposed legislation permitting State access to individual bank accounts, we can hazard a decent guess as to where such information would end up.

So there we have it: the crux of the issue is social control. Ever more power would be transferred from the populace to the politicians and their puppeteers in the big banks, and it is clear that both are more than happy for their ‘subjects’ to sleepwalk into the trap.

What, then, might be the antidote? What could be used confidently as a medium of exchange between parties, with no need for third party approval? What would hold its value owing to its finite supply? What could not be printed out of thin air at the whim of bankers or politicians? If the public can find palatable answers to these questions, then their freedom from financial fascism would be assured. If they cannot, the politicians will laugh – all the way to the banks.

Wednesday, April 08, 2015

Lusitania: 100 Years On

Mention RMS Titanic and most people know something of its fate. The tale of RMS Lusitania, however, is somewhat less well told. On Good Friday, I had the pleasure of visiting a new exhibition called Lusitania: life, loss, legacy (Figure 81.1). The story of the eponymous ship has been beautifully explained, in words, pictures, film reels and sound, at Merseyside Maritime Museum, Liverpool to mark the centenary of its tragic end.

Figure 81.1: The official poster, on display on the first floor of the museum

On 7th May, 1915, the ship, carrying 1,962 civilian passengers, was torpedoed by a German U-boat off the coast of Ireland (Figures 81.2 & 81.3)*. 1,198 souls perished at sea. The attack drew fury throughout Great Britain and beyond, as the Lusitania was a passenger liner and not, therefore, a legitimate wartime target. It was one of the most infamous events of the First World War, and felt most profoundly in Liverpool, from where many of its passengers originated.

Figure 81.2: An artist’s depiction of the U-boat attack

Figure 81.3: A picture taken from the German Federal Archive

Copyright expired

The exhibition’s curator, Eleanor Moffat, provides a comprehensive account of the disaster, detailing the lives of those affected, including its captain, William Turner (Figure 81.4), whose grave, incidentally, lies in the same cemetery – Rake Lane, Wallasey – as those of several of my own ancestors.

Figure 81.4: Commander William Thomas Turner, OBE, RNR (1856-1933)

Copyright expired

My sons appreciated the exhibition as much as I did (Figures 81.5 & 81.6). Both enjoyed viewing the video footage, but recoiled at the realization that more than a thousand passengers were forced to experience a premonition of their own deaths, as the stricken vessel listed violently before being swallowed whole by a merciless ocean. Nothing, surely, could be more terrifying than having such prior knowledge.

Figures 81.5 & 81.6: A day at the museum

Our thanks go to Eleanor Moffat and the many other contributors for preparing this detailed portrayal, which serves as a poignant tribute to those who lost their lives a century ago.

* This is the whole truth of the Lusitania ... or is it?

Happy Easter week to all.