w.atching the w.orld unw.ind

The book I’m reading at the moment (yes, that one, up on the left there) is reminding me a little of life in my home town, Portsmouth.

With a violent history naturally based on its shipping facilities – the deep-draughted harbour with its easily-defensible, narrow entrance makes it a superb safe haven and hence its name, Port’s Mouth - it was always going to be a place with a reputation. It had the worst records for alcoholism, prostitution, teenage pregnancies, STI’s, a premature history of drug abuse – the whole nine yards.

But its magnetism for ships of all sorts – naval, tall, ferries, yachts (with Cowes just over the water) has ever fascinated me.

Our dad always encouraged Bruv and me to be different. Not in what is now denigrated as a nerdy way, but just to not necessarily follow the crowd. So, because I wasn’t interested in collecting train numbers (even though nostalgic steam was still the main rail power in my very early youth) I decided to collect the numbers of the Navy's ships. You know, F41 (frigate) M84 (minesweeper) – that sort of thing.

And perversely, it was a healthy hobby. You had to be down at the harbour when they sailed – which was generally around 6.00 to 7.00, so it meant an early start to the day, a fast bike ride down to the Round Tower, or Sallyport, or the Camber. And just jot down the numbers – leaving you with the whole of the rest of the day to do other kidstuff. Including meeting your mates who were only just up and off train number-collecting, if they could drag you along.

And given the prolific, sniggering jokes about sailors and their sexual proclivities that are inevitable in a city rich in naval history (rimming had evidently been invented but not yet baptized) I was only ever ‘approached’ once in the early quietude of the docks area. Some latent defensive system kicked in and I tore off on the bike in the general direction of away. Thus avoiding becoming another Pompey statistic.

I don’t remember ever telling anyone that before now?

And during a school fad for autograph-collecting, when an American warship visited, I went to get signatures from some of those on shore leave. (A lot of 'ladies' had been 'specially bussed into town for the visit, too).

When one clean-cut matelot asked me why I wanted his autograph, I just replied "'Cos you're an American sailor." I swear he had a tear in his eye. Well, you walk out of the dockyard and someone immediately wants your name? You're gonna feel important, aren't you?