THIS ISLAND LIFEWHENEVER I turn on the computer to knock out this column, the miracle of modern communication never fails to make me stop and think.
Sometimes I have no choice in the matter, of course, because I remain at the mercy of TalkTalk and a capricious telephone link (something I intend to rectify in the coming year).
But when everything is humming and all is right with the world I think back to the rigmarole involved in sending copy to Portsmouth, when I was stationed in the outback of the Ryde district office more than 40 years ago.
Articles would be clattered out on an old typewriter — then one of three things would happen.
They would be posted, rushed down to the hovercraft terminal in a special delivery bag, or relayed over the phone to copy typists at Hilsea.
The latter was the favoured option, because it allowed plenty of opportunity for flirty chit-chat.
The first time I actually met the ladies at the newspaper’s head office it was as if we’d known each other for years. These days I simply press a button and (TalkTalk willing) my efforts zip through cyberspace and reach their destination in seconds. But technological advancement has always left innate Luddites like me limping along in its wake, which is why I rely on natural-born boffins like Brian Curd.
He is (to use a ghastly cricketing phrase) my 'go-to guy’ when the contraptions before me freeze, flicker or behave in a generally cantankerous way.
I’m aware a lot of people will be struggling with the intricacies of new computers received over Christmas and will now be at the point of putting their foot through the screen, declaring war on sub-continental call centres and shredding instruction manuals into a thousand pieces.
If you want to summon the cavalry, Brian can help. I could give you his e-mail address but that might be rubbing your noses in it a bit.
My old mate Les Benford (a disgracefully sprightly 78) reminded me technological bewilderment is not a modern phenomenon — it even affected his grandfather.
Les said: "My mum and dad’s first wireless set was a Pye and the speaker outlet featured a lovely sunrise with the rays shining behind clouds.
"The man from Gooches radio shop came to the cottage and fixed the aerial wire to the telephone pole in our garden and into the living room.
"Then he drove a copper rod into the flower bed under the window.
"Calling dad to one side, he said 'if it’s a dry summer and the signal goes off, wait ’til it’s dark and pee on the rod.’
"Mother thought this was awful and thought a saucepan full of water, in which the carrots or cabbage had been cooked, would do just as well.
"When the radio was eventually switched on, valves glowed, bits and pieces hummed and the tuning knob was turned. A brass band was playing.
"Grandfather was sitting in his chair by the kitchen range, cap on, pipe in mouth staring at the fire.
"'Well dad,’ said mother, 'what do you think of that?’
"Grandfather turned his head, took off his cap, removed his pipe, scratched the few hairs round his ears and replied 'Oi don’t know what sort of a damned fool you thinks oi be but you’ll never get all they blokes in that there box!’"
Proof, if it were ever needed, that while the scientific world continues to race ahead, there will always be plenty of people (including me and Les’s grandfather) languishing among the back-markers.
Take a trip back into the Island of Sixties
IF you have yet to decide how best to use the book vouchers received for Christmas, may I recommend the sixth volume of Alan Stroud’s fascinating series Yesterday’s Papers.
It is sub-titled Life on the Island in the Sixties and, as usual, he has scoured back issues of the County Press for stories and advertisements which evoke vivid memories of this remarkable decade.
His previous volumes have covered earlier decades but for baby boomers this latest edition has that potent quality — nostalgia.
Many pages are used to dissect the three pop festivals — how they were born, how they were received and how the Island establishment (including the CP) conspired to ensure they were never allowed to flourish.
One of the prime movers behind this was the then MP, Mark Woodnutt, whose own career was to end in ignominy a few years
later.
Alan has done a magnificent job chronicling what became known as 'the Bembridge Harbour affair’.
I’m sure there are many who have only a vague grasp of the story behind the machinations of a couple of local chisellers in high places.
Read this book and you will understand how scandals can take place when local government is less than transparent.