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Cod Almighty | Postbag

The loneliness of the long-distance letter writer

8 September 2017

Now and again you write to us. Now and again we publish what you write.

Hammer and sickle

I clicked on a CA Tweet today and I'm astonished to find the logo has been altered by an addition of a symbol of a more murderous regime then Hitlers! You either know this, and don't care, or you don't know this and cannot be bothered to find out.

My father was taken prisoner of war by Soviet forces in collusion with Germans, and my mother taken into forced labour. They saw good people murdered, starved and worked to death under that banner that you added for a 'heh heh' or a 'ha ha'. And if that happened in a far away place, and therefore does not move you, remember that the steel in the bombs, and the fuel that powered that planes during the Battle of Britain came from Russia, Germany's friend before they fell out.

The hammer and sickle oversaw 50 million deaths, never mind China, N Korea, Cuba, etc.

Shame on you!

from Janusz Przeniczny

Letters Ed responds: We did not intend to cause Janusz any offence. The hammer and sickle was a temporary addition to our logo which has now reverted to its usual format.

Innocence, ignorance, knowledge and consciousness

I was one of the 161 at the Checkourtirade game on Tuesday night at St. Christopher's, and not one of the 800 or so at the Sell-out Cup at Blundell Park.

As kick-off approached, I spied a few worms on the moistening, dewy grass wondering what all the fuss was about? I pondered: should I tell them? "Well, there's this bloke that heads the Football League and he thinks he can do what he likes with their competitions by going on a jolly abroad and getting Football League chairmen fed, pissed, tanned and agreeing to anything that he puts forth." On hearing this, one of the larger worms recoiled slowly back into his hole and said as he finally disappeared: "Yeah mate, we've heard that all before."

As I sipped my drink on the touchline, I didn't feel out of place. There was no yearning to learn of any scores elsewhere; I just enjoyed the game. Being so close to the action reminded me what a tough, competitive game football is, at any level. It also took me back (like Lee Johnson) to when my friends and I would migrate to the top of the Spinney on the Grange Estate to continue our game under the lights on Laceby Road when the sun had gone down. Ah, innocence.

And it has now made me question myself whether or not I should support a football team run by a member of the opposition when I am staunch working class, and whether or not this has a bearing on anything? All together, them and us?

Oh life. In innocence can be ignorance. Knowledge and consciousness is a whole new ball game, right and wrong. A big new can of worms.

Help!

from Tony Barker

Grimmo

When I was a kid fresh from the wilds of Waltham, just in time to spend half my life for the next six years down the Anderson shelter in Thomas Street whenever the Luftwaffe decided to strafe the streets or drop their butterfly bombs, there was an older language among the dockside fraternity of Holme Hill.

Tweedy was in goal "at Mariners". At first I was perplexed by "Ploggers" etc. I was more used to the Lincolnshire Road Cars that had flashed by Waltham cenotaph on their way to Town Hall Street, and the rarely seen "mawtor cars". But I was soon initiated into the local lingo: a ston of potatoes; dossent (daren't); fost or foggy (first); wost (worst). There's more in there that are trying to get out, but it's a long time ago and TV has taken ovver from crystal sets and high tension, low tension batteries and accumulators.

I thought "piggy pag" was invented by me as I was using it in Ashby (cum Fenby) in 1933.

from Don Nicholls

Thanks to Janusz, Tony and Don. Send letters through our feedback page