OBJECTIVE CRITIS

Hello everyone,

FRANK CRITICISM SOUGHT.

As an octogenarian, I obviously ain’t got too many more years’ left to live. Nevertheless, I’d dearly like to write summat for the ‘moral edification’ of those who are lucky enough to have been born long after the momentous events which so sadly marked one’s life in 1930’s and 1940’s Britain.

May I say briefly, that during WWII, I was a schoolboy and quite old enough to understand and share the fear and tragedy that the conflict inflicted upon my elders.

As a young adult and professional soldier, I served in the now long forgotten, bitterly ugly Korean War.

Subsequently, I worked in the poverty-stricken, former British colonies in West Africa, whose indigenous peoples were pitilessly exploited by the unrestrained forces of rampant capitalism –forces which have now become so powerful as to be able to challenge the very stability of so-called ‘western democracy’.

Finally, on marrying a Spaniard, I settled in Madrid, working for many years as a technical writer and translator (electronics).

Anyway, enough of my pretentious self-adulation and boring ol’ political rhetoric and back to the point…

These are just a couple of the many notes I’ve made –which of course, are far too alliteratively Dickensian and merit the undivided attention of homicidal subeditor’s hatchet. However, I’d warmly welcome anyone’s constructive comments. Are the essential elements of my geriatric drooling of any REAL interest or NOT???

MY NOTES:
1.
True! During WWI, Anglophone Allied forces employed members of many ethnicities to try to confound the Axis enemy: Gaelic speakers, Germans, Italians, Japanese, Navaho Indians, Welsh speakers and whatnot.

2.
Anecdotally, I well remember an extraordinarily ruddy-cheeked, red-haired Scots wireless operator, whose robust, Viking-like visage gave one the distinct impression that his glowing ‘bonce’ would explode into spontaneous combustion at any minute. This enthusiastic, National Service (conscripted) lad who hailed from a treeless, windswept remote Hebridean Isle, was a native Gaelic speaker, who’s everyday utterances in the King’s English were about as intelligible to his comrades as the monosibyllic grunts of a love struck Simian’s callings to its mate. But once he’d press the radio’s SEND button, a miracle would happen. It was though there were a linguist metamorphosis which elevated his locution into the uppermost realms of the exquisite. I don’t think that ever heard clearer enunciation in all my long life!
END.

Thanks,

Jim.