Let's hope we get New Zealand lamb after Brexit: RETRO

A New Zealand lamb competition display in the 1950s. Will we see more imports of NZ lamb after Brexit?
A New Zealand lamb competition display in the 1950s. Will we see more imports of NZ lamb after Brexit?
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I am sure, like me, you are sick of the word Brexit. I am also sick to death of all the people who have a downer on Britain leaving The Continent – as it was once called. 

I have never been a European, ever. I am British and even better than that, English.

I am neither for or against it as I am but a humble working man who has little idea of economics or even money, to be honest.

At my age all I think is that I have enough for the next fortnight, so why fret? I don’t know how long I have to live so why worry? 

What I do know is we all managed before we joined the EEC in 1973 and I am sure we will manage again.

As a 1960s teenager I know how wonderful it was living in this marvellous country of ours.

No one really knows or has the faintest idea how it will affect us but these economists and remainer MPs still keep putting their two pennies’ worth in the papers and editors still give them column inches, for some reason.

My biggest problem is with so-called statesmen, who appear to have disappeared off the face of the earth.

It seems the only ones to lose out will be the MEPs who will lose all their so-called ‘out of pocket expenses’. I think these are the people who want to remain – and you can see why. 

My only hope is that we will be having New Zealand Canterbury lamb back in butchers shops.

We used to have massive imports of inexpensive lamb back then but apparently most of it now goes to Japan.

Some weeks ago I published a photograph of the former Rugby Camp main gate.

Tony King tells us more: ‘I was stationed for a month at Rugby Camp from mid-November 1952 before been shunted off to Germany on December 12, 1952 for the balance of two years National Service. 

‘It was quite by chance that I came to Portsmouth because I was born and bred in the city and there was a rule at the time stating that no National Serviceman in training could be stationed within (I think) five miles of their home.

‘Following six weeks intensive square-bashing at Blackdown, (North Frith Barracks) came the day for posting to our technical training units and on making enquiries I was instructed by an irate sergeant – in terms I won't repeat – to 'get lost' for an hour, which I did. 

‘When I returned I was bawled out for having missed my transport to a place called Didcot. The only transport left was for Hilsea and after a bit of crossings out on the postings list I was bundled aboard. To my delight I was stationed in my home town.

‘The following weekend I wangled a 36-hour pass on compassionate grounds – I had recently suffered the loss of a sister – and on returning to camp I secreted my bike in the field at the back of Rugby Camp.

‘After lights out on nights when I wasn't on guard duty I would sneak out and get over the fence and ride home on my bike, getting back to camp in the small hours before reveille.

‘Sometimes I only just managed to sneak in on time.

‘No doubt, if I had been caught I would have been for the high-jump, but somehow I managed to get away with it.

‘I'm pretty sure the hut NCO was aware of what I was up to but chose to turn a blind eye to it.

‘The picture you published is looking in the main gate with the guardroom just visible on the right.

‘I spent four weeks at Rugby Camp learning how to be a stores clerk and was promised – verbally – a favourable response to my application for a compassionate UK posting.

‘I only learned at the weekend before embarkation that I was off to an ammunition depot in Germany where I spent the balance of my two year service.

‘The regime was naturally tight, but nothing like as severe as I had been used to, and guard duties were a spit-and-polish nightmare. 

‘I loathed everything about National Service at the time, yet with the benefit of hindsight it was the best thing that ever happened to me. 

‘It is a great pity it isn't still in existence for, without a doubt, we would not have anything like the crime and anti-social behaviour problems among the young that is so commonplace today.’

I see that there has been a call for a bank holiday on St George’s Day, April 23.

As a long-time member of the non-political organisation, Royal Society of St George, of which Her Majesty The Queen is patron, I am in full agreement with this suggestion.

A quarterly magazine is sent to members keeping everyone up to date on matters concerning St George’s Day.

To get your copy, or become a member, call 02032 255011.