In late 1940, the port of Liverpool in Merreye Olde was not a nice place to be. The noise of the ship yards. Rowdy sailors on shore leave and their impure thoughts as they eyed our maidens. And especially the shortages. There was little enough of anything to eat and almost nothing *good* to eat.
U-boats sinking too many of the food ships from the colonies, don't you know?
By late November the war had shut down many of Britain's other ports. Liverpool became even more crowded with freighters which survived the North Atlantic run . It became a juicy target for Luftwaffe Heinkels. The concentrated bombing created a bit of a stir. But one night, perhaps, some of the calorie starved civilians might have had one small good word for the Nazi bombers:
"There were, Adams recalls, some bizarre scenes. 'I can remember the warehouse outside the docks being on fire. The bacon fat was running down the gutter, and several women were running out of the houses with their pots trying to save the fat'."*
Fast forward the the time of those ladies' grandchildren whose passion in life is avoiding bowel cancer by banning bacon. Along with the usual Albionic hand-wringing and pants-peeing, our cousins seem, somehow, to connect it with their clever "rear of the year" award.
Okay, sweetheart, even though it's a small picture, I can see you have a delectable rear. Still, all in all, forced to choose, I think I'd have preferred life with your grandma.
*From Andrews Williams, "The Battle of the Atlantic." 2002. P. 107. ISBN 0 563 53429 x.
My review: Excellent.