Apologies
I’m sorry if I’ve made factual balls-ups – they’re not intentional. I apologise to Sorrel,
Cindy, Imo, Elizabeth, Katie, Nicky, Annie, April, Lulu, Susie, Sally, Jane and any more of the
tender sex who consider they played much bigger roles than the following might describe
– they did, but since it mostly covers a period when almost none of us were married I have
found it impossible to include them in without risking upsetting more people than I inform
(You really want the story about Tristan, Martyn and [girl’s name redacted] and the
dahlias? Meet me in the pub).
That’s enough apologies – as Tristan would have said anyway ‘never apologise, never explain’, or more than likely ‘Get the fuck on with it.’
My memories of Tristan
Yesterday’s obit in the Telegraph prompted this. Tristan lived enough for half-a-dozen normal men, so this will just be one snapshot of one period of his life seen through the eyes of just one of the hundreds who were proud to call him ‘friend’.
I met Tristan in our first week at Sandhurst, probably thanks to David Waterhouse. I had arrived at Sandhurst via two years racing motorbikes in Australia and a year working for John Birtwistle at Harrogate equestrian centre, Tristan had a similarly chequered background, having left RAC Cirencester under a cloud (something about turning up for the first lecture of the day still in his dinner jacket with a half finished bottle of whisky, which he then proceeded to polish off and throw the empty at the lecturer), both having been, to OE Waterhouse, at ‘minor public schools’ (Tristan: Eastbourne, me: Stowe) we were scooped up in the massive dining room in New College and trooped to the end table where DW announced to the poor newbie cadets already seated “Any of you not cavalry or guards can fuck off.”
That’s enough apologies – as Tristan would have said anyway ‘never apologise, never explain’, or more than likely ‘Get the fuck on with it.’
My memories of Tristan
Yesterday’s obit in the Telegraph prompted this. Tristan lived enough for half-a-dozen normal men, so this will just be one snapshot of one period of his life seen through the eyes of just one of the hundreds who were proud to call him ‘friend’.
I met Tristan in our first week at Sandhurst, probably thanks to David Waterhouse. I had arrived at Sandhurst via two years racing motorbikes in Australia and a year working for John Birtwistle at Harrogate equestrian centre, Tristan had a similarly chequered background, having left RAC Cirencester under a cloud (something about turning up for the first lecture of the day still in his dinner jacket with a half finished bottle of whisky, which he then proceeded to polish off and throw the empty at the lecturer), both having been, to OE Waterhouse, at ‘minor public schools’ (Tristan: Eastbourne, me: Stowe) we were scooped up in the massive dining room in New College and trooped to the end table where DW announced to the poor newbie cadets already seated “Any of you not cavalry or guards can fuck off.”
My first ever photographic record of Tristan – October 1975, I’m guessing. L-R Chris Vernon, David
Waterhouse, Simon Rodwell, Jeremy Nunn (obs), Clive Robinson, Tristan
An exception having been made for Mark Boringdon (Greenjackets) we sat ourselves
down to absorb this first lesson in the Waterhouse view of the Army in particular and life
in general (we were soon taken on a tour of Jermyn Street by David so we could be
brought sartorially up-to-scratch).
What first struck one about Tristan from the off was that there was absolutely no side at all - about him or his attitude to life and those who populated his immediate surroundings.
He was no respecter of authority unless that authority earned his respect. He warmed to the senior ranks in charge of us on the basis that they had spent the thick end of 20 years achieving a pinnacle in their chosen trade, but was more inclined to think that the officers, with notable exceptions (P Holcroft G Gds being one such) had been given jobs as DS (directing staff) at Sandhurst because their regiments wanted them out of the way.
An example of this was a bleary-eyed Stan forming up for first parade about three weeks into our course (SMC 10). Given that we were all confined to Sandhurst until we ‘passed off the square’ a week later we were surprised, and not a little impressed that he had escaped down a drainpipe after lights out to attend a 21st in London and climbed back up the same drainpipe at 5.30 am, having dodged all the security that Sandhurst could muster in both directions.
He was to become a cadet corporal, which, with hindsight, was pretty good judgement on the part of the DS – he was far too good a soldier to remain in the ranks but far too great a liability to be made up to JUO with the likes of Simon Rodwell (9/12L) and Guy Mainwaring-Burton (IG).
Sandhurst passed off relatively uneventfully until the week before we were due to be commissioned – apart from some pretty terrifying drag hunting and outings to the pub to refuel (the Chequers/Shoulder of Mutton). Bertie Boyle (IG) will remember one evening when a horde of Hells Angels invaded the Chequers and we reckoned retreat was the better part of valour but T ‘dominoes’ their motorbikes as we left, with Bertie – whose legs were not the longest – not quite making it to our transport in time.
I said ‘relatively’ earlier, because there was one very narrow scrape/escape when we were almost home-and-hosed. T, Jeremy Nunn (RH), Chris Vernon (‘boy soldier’ – the youngest of our intake – QOH), Pip Astley-Birtwistle (14/20H), Waterhouse (LG) and I decided that a ‘Pimms picnic’ was just the ticket for the Sunday before commissioning. This started at about midday beside the lake in front of Old College only to be interrupted by the RMP who asked us to ‘move on’. Move on we did – to Barossa (the Sandhurst heathland training area in the shadow of Broadmoor) – until we had consumed all the drink we had. Unfortunately, on the way back to Sandhurst a dog – well Pip, who was driving his mother’s Peugeot estate, saw it, if none of us did – ran out across the sandy track. Pip, whose dog-loving tendencies were unknown to us until that moment, veered violently into a ditch where the Peugeot began what seemed like a slow motion ‘end-over-end’ with all aboard rotating as if we were in a spin-dryer, eventually coming to a halt upside down with no injuries except a bit of a gash to the head to your narrator.
What first struck one about Tristan from the off was that there was absolutely no side at all - about him or his attitude to life and those who populated his immediate surroundings.
He was no respecter of authority unless that authority earned his respect. He warmed to the senior ranks in charge of us on the basis that they had spent the thick end of 20 years achieving a pinnacle in their chosen trade, but was more inclined to think that the officers, with notable exceptions (P Holcroft G Gds being one such) had been given jobs as DS (directing staff) at Sandhurst because their regiments wanted them out of the way.
An example of this was a bleary-eyed Stan forming up for first parade about three weeks into our course (SMC 10). Given that we were all confined to Sandhurst until we ‘passed off the square’ a week later we were surprised, and not a little impressed that he had escaped down a drainpipe after lights out to attend a 21st in London and climbed back up the same drainpipe at 5.30 am, having dodged all the security that Sandhurst could muster in both directions.
He was to become a cadet corporal, which, with hindsight, was pretty good judgement on the part of the DS – he was far too good a soldier to remain in the ranks but far too great a liability to be made up to JUO with the likes of Simon Rodwell (9/12L) and Guy Mainwaring-Burton (IG).
Sandhurst passed off relatively uneventfully until the week before we were due to be commissioned – apart from some pretty terrifying drag hunting and outings to the pub to refuel (the Chequers/Shoulder of Mutton). Bertie Boyle (IG) will remember one evening when a horde of Hells Angels invaded the Chequers and we reckoned retreat was the better part of valour but T ‘dominoes’ their motorbikes as we left, with Bertie – whose legs were not the longest – not quite making it to our transport in time.
I said ‘relatively’ earlier, because there was one very narrow scrape/escape when we were almost home-and-hosed. T, Jeremy Nunn (RH), Chris Vernon (‘boy soldier’ – the youngest of our intake – QOH), Pip Astley-Birtwistle (14/20H), Waterhouse (LG) and I decided that a ‘Pimms picnic’ was just the ticket for the Sunday before commissioning. This started at about midday beside the lake in front of Old College only to be interrupted by the RMP who asked us to ‘move on’. Move on we did – to Barossa (the Sandhurst heathland training area in the shadow of Broadmoor) – until we had consumed all the drink we had. Unfortunately, on the way back to Sandhurst a dog – well Pip, who was driving his mother’s Peugeot estate, saw it, if none of us did – ran out across the sandy track. Pip, whose dog-loving tendencies were unknown to us until that moment, veered violently into a ditch where the Peugeot began what seemed like a slow motion ‘end-over-end’ with all aboard rotating as if we were in a spin-dryer, eventually coming to a halt upside down with no injuries except a bit of a gash to the head to your narrator.
David decided he’d better get me into a cold bath PDQ as the powers-that-be would take a
dim view of a) a crashed car, b) an injured cadet and c) the amount of empties strewn
around said car. Meanwhile Tristan and Pip decide that they would carry on with Plan B
(the whisky drinking part of the marathon) and catch up with us when I was patched.
Unfortunately the RMP – alerted by someone destined for a very short career in the
15/19H who shall remain nameless (OK –Jones was part of it, but not Thompson) – took a
different view. Tristan and Pip were rounded up – post half the whisky - and herded off to
New College Officers’ Mess to meet a captain in the Parachute Regiment, hotly followed by
me, Waterhouse and Nunn (me sober as hell after immersion in a cold bath for half an
hour – with half a can of Germoline crammed into my scalp and a quick reversal of hair
parting). There we were lined up to find a new facet of our mucker’s character – his
reaction to pompous officialdom.
If any of us had paid attention in a class on ‘Conduct becoming an officer...’ (Patrick Holcroft, having excised all the Welbexians from his platoon by half-term of the first term kindly allowed us to treat such sessions as R&R) we would have known the first rule is ‘Never interview a soldier under the influence of alcohol.’ Not because you won’t get any sense out of him, but because he is highly likely to take a swing at you – and get himself six months in Colchester.
Anyway, there we all were, formed up for our bollocking. In walks Captain ‘wings and mauve beret’ and launches into a tirade only to stop halfway though and ask Tristan: ‘Cadet corporal Voorspuy – he pronounced Tristan’s surname ‘Voorspew’ – which stuck, as you can probably imagine – ‘what are you finding so bloody funny?’ Tristan had the complete and utter giggles – he was unable to reply, so Pip helpfully joined in, saying ‘In a week’s time he’s going to be an officer in the Blues & Royals and we’ll all be cavalry officers, so we won’t be speaking to oiks like you.’
Thankfully the only visual record (apart from those taken later of Pip’s Mum’s car by the Military Police) –
taken early on in proceedings. From what I can make out – Pip on top of Jeremy and David
If any of us had paid attention in a class on ‘Conduct becoming an officer...’ (Patrick Holcroft, having excised all the Welbexians from his platoon by half-term of the first term kindly allowed us to treat such sessions as R&R) we would have known the first rule is ‘Never interview a soldier under the influence of alcohol.’ Not because you won’t get any sense out of him, but because he is highly likely to take a swing at you – and get himself six months in Colchester.
Anyway, there we all were, formed up for our bollocking. In walks Captain ‘wings and mauve beret’ and launches into a tirade only to stop halfway though and ask Tristan: ‘Cadet corporal Voorspuy – he pronounced Tristan’s surname ‘Voorspew’ – which stuck, as you can probably imagine – ‘what are you finding so bloody funny?’ Tristan had the complete and utter giggles – he was unable to reply, so Pip helpfully joined in, saying ‘In a week’s time he’s going to be an officer in the Blues & Royals and we’ll all be cavalry officers, so we won’t be speaking to oiks like you.’
A career-ending incident, whichever way you cut it. Off to the guardroom for the night. In front of the college commander, Col Smyth-Osbourne (ColdmG) the next day. Marched in one-by-one by college Corporal-Major ‘Larry’ Lumb (LG) for the inevitable. But no. Nunn and Voorspuy lose their stripes (another nickname for Tristan to add to the fairly pedestrian ‘Stan’ and ‘Tris’ - the latter pretty well the exclusive preserve of Martyn Lee -: ‘Temporary Corporal Voorspew’ - the rest of us get a bollocking (David W gets an extra – proper – one from Larry: “Think you’re fit to join my regiment, Mr Waterhouse, Sir?!!”). Lessons learned? If the army wants you badly enough it will find a loophole – and Capt Para had inadvertently provided one. Conversely, if it doesn’t want you, you will be slung no matter hard you try (c.f. Welbexians).
On to Lulworth and gunnery, Bovingdon and D&M
To lovely Lulworth, pips up and no responsibility the day the longest hottest summer in living memory begins. With Tristan and Vermin of the old Sandhurst crew and some new faces. Remarkable amongst these were one boyhood friend of Tristan’s named Martyn Hamilton-Lee (‘Hamilton’ optional, depending on the social and military circumstances) and another, more senior by a term, Blue: Guy Hanmer.
Now we all have had occasion to look back at periods in our lives and say ‘I could have made more of that’ or ‘We could have enjoyed that more if...’. Not of our Troop Leaders’ course we couldn’t. London looked a long way on a map. Not in Tim Thompson-Jones’s Renault banana, or Tristan’s Dutch-plated VW Beetle.
The Dutch plates – or rather the fact that they came attached to a left hooker - were useful one night on the way Home from Martyn’s mum Sallie’s 4 am breakfast post Hare & Hounds lock-in when we shot across a T-junction by Dorchester prison and missed a Ford Granada by inches. Out of the back seat of the Granada climbed the Chief Constable in full fig, slightly unsteady on his way home from a posh ‘do’ in Bournemouth, to give me a bollocking to remember, mostly for the fact that Tristan was sitting behind the wheel in the seat to my left, the whole while, chewing his fist to staunch the giggles (again). There was one slightly tense moment when the CC looked me in the eye and said ‘Drive on now’ and I had to mime steering the car as we drove away.
This story also illustrates one of the unintended benefits of serving HM in the seventies: it was obvious to anyone with half a brain and eyes to see that you were in one branch or other of the services. The times we were asked to ‘drive on sir’ or ‘just park it over there sir, you can pick the keys up from [police station] in the morning.’ Whether that was slaloming down the Kings road in Pip’s Mini (Pip on pedals, Tristan on his lap steering and me on gears) with three girls aboard or to-ing and fro-ing through customs at Dover, a short-back-and sides worked wonders with authority in the heyday of the hippie.
We commonly went up to London after ‘school’ ended at 4 pm whether at Lulworth or Bovingdon in time for drinks with whichever alumnus of Winkfield was celebrating her 18th in Cadogan Gardens or Fabian Road and then on to a party or club until it was time to get back for first parade at 8.30. More than once young officers turned up for their first school in coveralls done up to the neck to disguise the remnants of black tie underneath.
Somewhere in our minds we are all always nineteen!
Winkfield: As a side note, we were all convinced that Winkfield Place, a ‘finishing school’ for young ladies, had been opened just outside Ascot for the express purpose of providing female company for guards and cavalry officer cadets. Every Monday night, when we weren’t on some ghastly exercise, we had ‘Cross-country dancing’ at Sandhurst, and the girls from Winkfield trooped over en masse. Winkfield is, apparently, no longer. Why? Do country houses no longer need running? Do shooting lunches not need cooking? Do flowers not need arranging? And they call it progress.
Why does Tristan appear to be holding a billiard cue? Refreshments being taken at 7 am on the Wool ranges
on the way back from the Black & White ball – in preparation for reattaching the rear wheel of T’s Beetle
To ease the boredom on the way home we played a motorised version of grandmother’s
footsteps down the A303. In those days there were innumerable roundabouts and the
trick was to drive straight across – leaving tyre tracks in the dew for those following on.
On one occasion in the trusty Beetle I was sitting rear left over the wheel arch. I could have
sworn that it was even more uncomfortable as usual, especially over the roundabouts, but
when I complained I was told firmly by Tristan and Pip in front to ‘shut the fuck up or
drive yourself’.
Eventually, as we crossed the tank training area, the wheel finally fell off. It had been hanging on by the studs for miles – they were all in the hubcap. As a bonus a Blues corporal-major instructor drove past in his chieftain as we were considering just what to do – I didn’t lose opportunity to let him know that he could look forward to the delights of getting to know our driver better when they both returned to duty in Detmold.
Always good for morale – soldiers like to know their officers party hard! Blues Cpl-Major passes T putting wheel back on the faithful Beetle
Eventually, as we crossed the tank training area, the wheel finally fell off. It had been hanging on by the studs for miles – they were all in the hubcap. As a bonus a Blues corporal-major instructor drove past in his chieftain as we were considering just what to do – I didn’t lose opportunity to let him know that he could look forward to the delights of getting to know our driver better when they both returned to duty in Detmold.
Tristan taking a break from track maintenance - D&M at Bovingdon – June 1976
Other things we were not so proud of
The Lulworth caravan park incident: We often frequented the Sailor’s Return in West Lulworth, and on the way home what seemed to be the biggest caravan park in Western Europe blotted the view (I had travelled to the Sailor’s on Tristan’s running board, hanging on for dear life through the sun roof – a trick I seem to remember Rufus repeating, this time on Tristan’s bonnet, hanging onto the windscreen wipers – all the way home to Folkington Place, trying to stop us leaving the Sussex Ox some years later). David Waterhouse was particularly offended. Something had to be done. Something was done – I’m not quite sure what, but it occasioned another military life lesson. The commandant – a charming colonel in the Scots Greys - required the culprits to own up.
The culprits weren’t at all keen on owning up. But a fellow student was worried he might
have his leave cancelled if they did not. He went so far as to threaten to name names if no
one came forward. Now you may have heard of the West Point Honour Code – and the fact
that the US and UK are two countries separated by a common language. Add to that ‘sense
of honour’. At West point if you see another cadet commit the slightest misdemeanour you
are ‘honour bound’ to report him, at Sandhurst, and throughout the British army, the
reverse is true – you are honour bound to shut the fuck up. The officer concerned in this
incident was never known by his name after that – it followed him through the ranks from 2nd Lt Squealer to Colonel Squealer.
I was reminded of another ‘Stan Prank’ recently when the national press covered the ‘Bovingdon Hilton Flare Incident’. Apparently a young cavalry officer had fired a flare at a mate in a canoe in the ‘Hilton’s’ (our nickname for a ghastly ‘60s tower block over the officers’ mess) swimming pool. At 3 am. As one does. And the flare had ricocheted off the canoe straight through a fifth floor bedroom window and burnt out the entire floor. The fire hoses had, according to ‘army sources’ been recently switched off.
Thank goodness the army hasn’t changed completely for the worse. Anyway: the ‘Hilton’ was about eight stories high with two lifts. Every floor had a fire hose. Are you following Tristan’s thinking? Along the lines of ‘if we stop the lift just short of our floor and fill it with water, hold it until a senior officer calls a lift, then race down the stairs in time to see him hit by a miniature sunami’? Not me Brigadier!
Those of us who were there in ’76 and know the army ways reckon those hoses had been
switched off ever since Tristan washed the brigadier across the mess lobby.
I don’t have a photograph of when Vermin was getting a bit fresh with the female mess staff at Lulworth, fortunately for Vermin, sadly for the fairer sex reading this, as Tristan’s answer to bringing the ‘good-looking one’ (Chris was subsequently nicknamed ‘Captain Elbow’ when the British Army spokesman in Bosnia. His good looks encouraged so many women to send him their underwear that he had to be taken off the nightly news, but you could still hear him and see his elbow while the boring MOD man prattled on) down a peg involved stripping him naked and literally pegging him to the croquet lawn with hoops (I vividly remember being a mite concerned when it came the one over Chris’s neck – apparently he was more concerned about the ones over his upper thigh).
In those days it was considered very bad form for any young officer not to ‘join in’ with what we called ‘letting-off-steam’ by retiring to their room. On one such occasion Tristan decided that a repeat offender might be discouraged if we blew his bedroom door off. Back to the second-in-command’s office we went (a major in the SDG who produced a squeaky pop-singer who changed his name by dropping the ‘o’). “Would you behave like that in your own homes?” RKB: “No sir, certainly not sir.” Hanmer: “Not with my father within a million miles, sir.” Voorspuy: “We did, last weekend, and my mother thought it was hilarious.” Cue giggling.
Pearl, Tristan’s mother: Anybody and everybody loved her, because she had such an enormous capacity for love herself. On her gravestone in Folkington churchyard are inscribed the words “Adored and loved by all” – enough said.
Later that same summer I took Chris and Tristan to visit my father on the way to the Mill at Umberleigh. A seven hour lunch ended with a marathon billiards and brandy session and me being alerted by a kerfuffle on the upstairs landing after we had gone to bed - my father stark naked except for a shotgun quietly suggesting to C & T that they could do without any help from Eija - my father's young Finnish 'housekeeper' making up their beds in Rory's bedroom. I crept across the passage as soon as I could be certain that the Old Man had gone back to bed to find the boys tying sheets and blankets together in a bid to escape out of the window. I reassured them that Dad's bark was far worse than his bite and all was forgotten by breakfast the next day.
I was reminded of another ‘Stan Prank’ recently when the national press covered the ‘Bovingdon Hilton Flare Incident’. Apparently a young cavalry officer had fired a flare at a mate in a canoe in the ‘Hilton’s’ (our nickname for a ghastly ‘60s tower block over the officers’ mess) swimming pool. At 3 am. As one does. And the flare had ricocheted off the canoe straight through a fifth floor bedroom window and burnt out the entire floor. The fire hoses had, according to ‘army sources’ been recently switched off.
Thank goodness the army hasn’t changed completely for the worse. Anyway: the ‘Hilton’ was about eight stories high with two lifts. Every floor had a fire hose. Are you following Tristan’s thinking? Along the lines of ‘if we stop the lift just short of our floor and fill it with water, hold it until a senior officer calls a lift, then race down the stairs in time to see him hit by a miniature sunami’? Not me Brigadier!
Plus ca change...
I don’t have a photograph of when Vermin was getting a bit fresh with the female mess staff at Lulworth, fortunately for Vermin, sadly for the fairer sex reading this, as Tristan’s answer to bringing the ‘good-looking one’ (Chris was subsequently nicknamed ‘Captain Elbow’ when the British Army spokesman in Bosnia. His good looks encouraged so many women to send him their underwear that he had to be taken off the nightly news, but you could still hear him and see his elbow while the boring MOD man prattled on) down a peg involved stripping him naked and literally pegging him to the croquet lawn with hoops (I vividly remember being a mite concerned when it came the one over Chris’s neck – apparently he was more concerned about the ones over his upper thigh).
In those days it was considered very bad form for any young officer not to ‘join in’ with what we called ‘letting-off-steam’ by retiring to their room. On one such occasion Tristan decided that a repeat offender might be discouraged if we blew his bedroom door off. Back to the second-in-command’s office we went (a major in the SDG who produced a squeaky pop-singer who changed his name by dropping the ‘o’). “Would you behave like that in your own homes?” RKB: “No sir, certainly not sir.” Hanmer: “Not with my father within a million miles, sir.” Voorspuy: “We did, last weekend, and my mother thought it was hilarious.” Cue giggling.
Pearl, Tristan’s mother: Anybody and everybody loved her, because she had such an enormous capacity for love herself. On her gravestone in Folkington churchyard are inscribed the words “Adored and loved by all” – enough said.
Later that same summer I took Chris and Tristan to visit my father on the way to the Mill at Umberleigh. A seven hour lunch ended with a marathon billiards and brandy session and me being alerted by a kerfuffle on the upstairs landing after we had gone to bed - my father stark naked except for a shotgun quietly suggesting to C & T that they could do without any help from Eija - my father's young Finnish 'housekeeper' making up their beds in Rory's bedroom. I crept across the passage as soon as I could be certain that the Old Man had gone back to bed to find the boys tying sheets and blankets together in a bid to escape out of the window. I reassured them that Dad's bark was far worse than his bite and all was forgotten by breakfast the next day.
A note on giggling: it happened again at Tristan’s and Cindy’s wedding. The vicar brought
proceedings to a halt to allow Tristan ‘time to compose himself for what are meant to be
solemn vows’. In Tristan’s defence (not that he ever needed defending) it was either
Morven or Rufus’s fault as they had got the timings wrong so the ushers’ lunch went on for
an hour longer than intended.
And so to Germany
We had lost Martyn, apparently he’d never quite properly joined the full-time army (his frightfully smart chain-mailed service dress should have given the powers-that-be at Lulworth a clue) and so was politely asked to leave, but not before life-long friendships were established (both Tristan and Martyn were made godfather to my son Robert).
Tristan made for the Blues at Detmold, in the next-door barracks to Chris Vernon (Queen’s Own Hussars) and I was collected off the plane by Charlie Lowther and taken straight to the polo ground at Bad Lipspringge, twenty miles down the road, and the Irish Hussars.
There ensued three years of driving around Germany in tanks every spring, hunting with the Weser Vale, skiing every winter (December – February – no messing about). In between our various regiments competed to provide the best entertainment. The Irish Hussars parties were pretty unbeatable, partly because we didn’t do tours of Northern Ireland, which interrupted every non-Irish regiment’s social life, but every cavalry regiment – and there were a dozen of them in Germany in those days - pulled out all the stops.
All of our regiments had polo teams, around which the April-September social life revolved – even if you were a non-player like Vermin. Polo tournaments ran every weekend and regiments were responsible for putting on parties on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights (usually fairly relaxed affairs on the Thursday and Friday and more full-on black tie on Saturday. A Planeload of girls would be met at Dusseldorf every week. Booze was completely duty-free and most regiments had a deal with the local French officers’ club over champagne. We were paid peanuts and lived like kings.
And so to Germany
We had lost Martyn, apparently he’d never quite properly joined the full-time army (his frightfully smart chain-mailed service dress should have given the powers-that-be at Lulworth a clue) and so was politely asked to leave, but not before life-long friendships were established (both Tristan and Martyn were made godfather to my son Robert).
Tristan made for the Blues at Detmold, in the next-door barracks to Chris Vernon (Queen’s Own Hussars) and I was collected off the plane by Charlie Lowther and taken straight to the polo ground at Bad Lipspringge, twenty miles down the road, and the Irish Hussars.
There ensued three years of driving around Germany in tanks every spring, hunting with the Weser Vale, skiing every winter (December – February – no messing about). In between our various regiments competed to provide the best entertainment. The Irish Hussars parties were pretty unbeatable, partly because we didn’t do tours of Northern Ireland, which interrupted every non-Irish regiment’s social life, but every cavalry regiment – and there were a dozen of them in Germany in those days - pulled out all the stops.
Guy Hanmer – Tristan – Chris Vernon – in my room at Barker barracks after a mess night (actually, it must be before - we would never have scrubbed up so well after)
All of our regiments had polo teams, around which the April-September social life revolved – even if you were a non-player like Vermin. Polo tournaments ran every weekend and regiments were responsible for putting on parties on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights (usually fairly relaxed affairs on the Thursday and Friday and more full-on black tie on Saturday. A Planeload of girls would be met at Dusseldorf every week. Booze was completely duty-free and most regiments had a deal with the local French officers’ club over champagne. We were paid peanuts and lived like kings.
When we weren’t playing polo we were visiting each other’s messes for dinner – read
‘poker and/or roulette’ until 3 am. Or visiting the lovely ladies of the British Forces
Educational Service (I cannot for the life of me ever remember meeting a single male
teacher at these endless do's) or the Queen Alexandra’s Royal Army Nursing Corps (people
in uniform do seem to be attracted to each other).
Knightsbridge
At almost the same time I left my regiment to go and live in 62 Kings Road Windsor with three of Tristan’s Fellow officers (Guy Hanmer, Martin Horsford and the youthful and rather fetching – so he thought anyway - Harry Sutherland) Tristan was made a troop leader at the Mounted Regiment in Knightsbridge. Ted Barclay, Nigel Hadden Paton, Andrew Parker Boles and, from an entertainment point-of-view and occasional point-to-point mutual friend of Tristan’s named Mark Macauley hove into focus.
Mark Macauley became a fast friend, partly because he shared Tristan’s attitude for authority (he would commonly have the whole of watering order park their horses up in Child’s Place for bacon butties and coffee, and he must be one of the very few Mounted regiment officers in history to cut a Head of State’s escort – Singapore if my memory serves me).
Mark was a shareholder in the Embassy Club and Tristan had just returned from Hereford where, to the intense irritation of the Commanding Officer of 22 SAS, he had failed selection on a technicality (Chris Vernon had arrived back from the same selection three days previously, turning up at my flat in Thurloe Place in agony to have me take a knife to his jeans as his knee was so swollen he couldn’t get them off). So Mark and Tristan hatched a plot to get the newly reopened Embassy Club off to a flying PR start – an SAS invasion. Imagine trying that on today. Men in black overalls and balaclavas abseiling unannounced from the double-height ceiling of the club. Well, partly thanks to Mark’s mother’s family owning the Daily Telegraph and me and Mark ringing the Express and the Evening Standard (and getting paid £50 each by them) the membership applications came flooding in.
Tristan’s racing career began on a wet and windy day at Charing – outside Maidstone (the East Kent, if memory serves me, probably in 1979). All the usual suspects were rounded up to witness the great event. Third fence, horse never even bothered to leave the ground. The walk of shame went alright until Tristan was approaching the collecting ring and suddenly a tiny, wizened old hag who had been selling lucky heather emerged from the throng in a rage with a massive clod of earth and hurled it at poor Tristan – why she had wagered her takings on him, no one was able to discover.
Knightsbridge
At almost the same time I left my regiment to go and live in 62 Kings Road Windsor with three of Tristan’s Fellow officers (Guy Hanmer, Martin Horsford and the youthful and rather fetching – so he thought anyway - Harry Sutherland) Tristan was made a troop leader at the Mounted Regiment in Knightsbridge. Ted Barclay, Nigel Hadden Paton, Andrew Parker Boles and, from an entertainment point-of-view and occasional point-to-point mutual friend of Tristan’s named Mark Macauley hove into focus.
Mark Macauley became a fast friend, partly because he shared Tristan’s attitude for authority (he would commonly have the whole of watering order park their horses up in Child’s Place for bacon butties and coffee, and he must be one of the very few Mounted regiment officers in history to cut a Head of State’s escort – Singapore if my memory serves me).
Mark was a shareholder in the Embassy Club and Tristan had just returned from Hereford where, to the intense irritation of the Commanding Officer of 22 SAS, he had failed selection on a technicality (Chris Vernon had arrived back from the same selection three days previously, turning up at my flat in Thurloe Place in agony to have me take a knife to his jeans as his knee was so swollen he couldn’t get them off). So Mark and Tristan hatched a plot to get the newly reopened Embassy Club off to a flying PR start – an SAS invasion. Imagine trying that on today. Men in black overalls and balaclavas abseiling unannounced from the double-height ceiling of the club. Well, partly thanks to Mark’s mother’s family owning the Daily Telegraph and me and Mark ringing the Express and the Evening Standard (and getting paid £50 each by them) the membership applications came flooding in.
Tristan’s racing career began on a wet and windy day at Charing – outside Maidstone (the East Kent, if memory serves me, probably in 1979). All the usual suspects were rounded up to witness the great event. Third fence, horse never even bothered to leave the ground. The walk of shame went alright until Tristan was approaching the collecting ring and suddenly a tiny, wizened old hag who had been selling lucky heather emerged from the throng in a rage with a massive clod of earth and hurled it at poor Tristan – why she had wagered her takings on him, no one was able to discover.
Mark’s Tey for the Cambridgeshire point-to-point
Folkington Place
The trouble with Sussex was that it was just so much fun – it all blurs into a massive mush of drinking, partying, hunt balls, pretty girls, racing, Pearl’s wonderful garden, Miss Coventry (did she have a Christian name?), Glessings, Menzies, The Ox, Hailsham magistrates’ court, Cuddly Dudley, cricket matches (always next to a pub), racing nights (the least said...), the dining room at Folkington, a night so cold at Pebsham that Harry Sutherland and I ended up sharing bed with the carpet as an extra blanket.
Hailsham magistrates’ court?
An everyday story of country folk really. It starts off as every Saturday between August and May should – a hunting morning. The boys and girls have trooped down from London on Friday and woken to fog, and more fog, and the dreaded phone call – no hunting. So: the Sussex Ox. Unfortunately, no one had told the Brighton branch of the League Against Cruel Sports – so the LACS boys (not real antis – all paid £5 a day plus packed lunch by a millionaire nutter). So guess what? They head for the Sussex Ox too.
Tristan has a bit of a word with Dudley, the landlord, and asks him to get rid of the antis. Dudley is a bit wet and says he can’t. By then its closing time (3 pm in those days) so there’s the hilarious sight of a horde of antis (16 – the police counted later) and all of us leaving the pub, with the usual ‘banter’ as you can imagine.
That would have been that – but there was what we later agreed with the police to call a
‘crow scarer’ under the front passenger seat of my car, and as we stopped abruptly next to
the anti’s Transit van it shot out between Tristan’s feet. Do I need to tell you what then
ensued?
We were making a swift exit when I noticed the petrol tank of my brand new Golf was on empty. Tristan said ‘It’ll be fine – they (the antis) will head back to Brighton, there’s a petrol station in the other direction.’ Off we go. Three girls in the back seat: Elizabeth Ryrie, Nicky Symington and Victoria Acland, me filling up. And the Transit hoves into view. Out they all pour, understandably not for a chat, and begin to smash every window and body panel of my pride and joy with pickaxe handles. I still have in my minds eye the faintly bizarre vision of the petrol station owner leaving his kiosk and running across a ploughed field as fast as he could go – described by Pip later as ‘pulling long swastikas’.
There were positives: what man has not wanted an excuse to bulldoze another vehicle out of the way to make an escape? And punch out a broken windscreen on the move? We ticked both those boxes that day.
PC Plod (in the person of PC Knight, as happens) were happy to prosecute the antis (aggravated assault and criminal damage), but the deal was that Tristan and I would have to take the rap for ‘causing a breach of the peace’. Fine, except that Tristan had an escort for the royal wedding coming up, and the army takes a dim view of criminal convictions. So off to Hailsham magistrates’ court – and wouldn’t you know it, on the very same day that Cuddly Dudley and all his fellow publicans are there to apply for their extensions for the day of royal celebrations. “You owe us one Dudley, the Harvey’s is on you today.” And, as it’s market day in Hailsham the George Hotel is open from 10 am.
We are defended by John Ball, master of the Pevensey Marsh beagles and a local solicitor, so he comes into the George, where we are doing our best to make a significant dent in Dudley’s week’s takings and gets stern with Tristan about being in a fit and proper state when we appear before the bench. Which we eventually do at 3.45 – Tristan has to be helped across the road after getting his own back on Dudley at the rate of about four pints an hour for four hours and, unsurprisingly, is underwhelmed when we are introduced to the sixteen ‘antis’ and John Barrington, then chief executive of the League Against Cruel Sports, and their London silk.
Despite all of this we get off with a £50 fine each – the antis, all of whom have previous, mostly for GBH and ABH, that takes hours to read out (one had 22 previous), are all convicted of something – we are past caring, the George is still open.
There is a postscript. John Ball had charged us £50 for his services. Rufus and Morven thought this bad form, so the next weekend when we were all in the Plough at Udimore and John – not a notably tall man, often the case with beaglers – walked in. Rufus quietly picked John up by the lapels and hung him on the coat hooks by the front door, then calmly reached inside John’s coat, found his wallet and extracted five crisp tenners and handed them to Tristan and me. John was then handed down so he could help us drink his fee.
We were making a swift exit when I noticed the petrol tank of my brand new Golf was on empty. Tristan said ‘It’ll be fine – they (the antis) will head back to Brighton, there’s a petrol station in the other direction.’ Off we go. Three girls in the back seat: Elizabeth Ryrie, Nicky Symington and Victoria Acland, me filling up. And the Transit hoves into view. Out they all pour, understandably not for a chat, and begin to smash every window and body panel of my pride and joy with pickaxe handles. I still have in my minds eye the faintly bizarre vision of the petrol station owner leaving his kiosk and running across a ploughed field as fast as he could go – described by Pip later as ‘pulling long swastikas’.
There were positives: what man has not wanted an excuse to bulldoze another vehicle out of the way to make an escape? And punch out a broken windscreen on the move? We ticked both those boxes that day.
PC Plod (in the person of PC Knight, as happens) were happy to prosecute the antis (aggravated assault and criminal damage), but the deal was that Tristan and I would have to take the rap for ‘causing a breach of the peace’. Fine, except that Tristan had an escort for the royal wedding coming up, and the army takes a dim view of criminal convictions. So off to Hailsham magistrates’ court – and wouldn’t you know it, on the very same day that Cuddly Dudley and all his fellow publicans are there to apply for their extensions for the day of royal celebrations. “You owe us one Dudley, the Harvey’s is on you today.” And, as it’s market day in Hailsham the George Hotel is open from 10 am.
We are defended by John Ball, master of the Pevensey Marsh beagles and a local solicitor, so he comes into the George, where we are doing our best to make a significant dent in Dudley’s week’s takings and gets stern with Tristan about being in a fit and proper state when we appear before the bench. Which we eventually do at 3.45 – Tristan has to be helped across the road after getting his own back on Dudley at the rate of about four pints an hour for four hours and, unsurprisingly, is underwhelmed when we are introduced to the sixteen ‘antis’ and John Barrington, then chief executive of the League Against Cruel Sports, and their London silk.
Despite all of this we get off with a £50 fine each – the antis, all of whom have previous, mostly for GBH and ABH, that takes hours to read out (one had 22 previous), are all convicted of something – we are past caring, the George is still open.
There is a postscript. John Ball had charged us £50 for his services. Rufus and Morven thought this bad form, so the next weekend when we were all in the Plough at Udimore and John – not a notably tall man, often the case with beaglers – walked in. Rufus quietly picked John up by the lapels and hung him on the coat hooks by the front door, then calmly reached inside John’s coat, found his wallet and extracted five crisp tenners and handed them to Tristan and me. John was then handed down so he could help us drink his fee.
Africa
I was staying with Martyn Lee; it must have been when he was between the Oakley, The Belvoir and the Taunton Vale, when he said “I was sitting next to someone at a dinner party who said they know of a family in Zimbabwe who would enjoy entertaining young Englishmen with a penchant for adventure. So I took the address and wrote – guess what? They replied! We’re on!”
So we were – in spite of Martyn’s snake phobia (I later found out he wasn’t joking about that when we came across a mamba that had been run over about 100 times and decided it would be a good idea to wave it in Martyn’s general direction. No sooner done than Martyn had a .243 round chambered. No more snake jokes – ever!)
Next thing Tristan calls: “I’ve just bought a motorbike in the pub, can you come down an teach me to ride it.” Down to Folkington where it transpires that Tristan has plans to ride to Cape Town. Next week. So he can be in time to turn around and ride the 1400 miles back to Harare to meet me and Martyn and Robert Blackmore off the plane to stay with the Hensmans at Chinoyi.
I was staying with Martyn Lee; it must have been when he was between the Oakley, The Belvoir and the Taunton Vale, when he said “I was sitting next to someone at a dinner party who said they know of a family in Zimbabwe who would enjoy entertaining young Englishmen with a penchant for adventure. So I took the address and wrote – guess what? They replied! We’re on!”
So we were – in spite of Martyn’s snake phobia (I later found out he wasn’t joking about that when we came across a mamba that had been run over about 100 times and decided it would be a good idea to wave it in Martyn’s general direction. No sooner done than Martyn had a .243 round chambered. No more snake jokes – ever!)
Next thing Tristan calls: “I’ve just bought a motorbike in the pub, can you come down an teach me to ride it.” Down to Folkington where it transpires that Tristan has plans to ride to Cape Town. Next week. So he can be in time to turn around and ride the 1400 miles back to Harare to meet me and Martyn and Robert Blackmore off the plane to stay with the Hensmans at Chinoyi.
Clockwise from top left – Tristan not wanting to be photographed with impala because his mum
wouldn’t have approved; Tristan didn’t always ride unarmed; Tristan faced with the 'deepest hole in Africa' so - in he goes. Tristan, Martyn (!), Rob and Susie
Hensman on a trout-fishing expedition to Inyanga. Our hostess, who was in her eighties (with lab)
proudly showed us her Snaffles prints of the Exmoor staghounds and the many bullet holes that penetrated her lodge from front to back. When asked ‘What do you do when they are shooting at
you, she calmly replied ‘Turn out the lights and get under the kitchen table – they don’t come in
because they are afraid of the dark’!
A morning spent in the local Honda dealer in Hastings (spare cables, spark plugs, air
cleaners, puncture kits, panniers and a tank rack). A quick refuelling with Rufus in the Ox
and up onto the downs: two hours of ‘don’t forget the back brake’ later and Tristan is
supremely confident of his ability to negotiate the Sudan and all points north and south.
He wasn’t wrong.
As we were leaving Harare airport workmen were painting out the words ‘Salisbury’ and putting up ‘Harare’. How the population would learn to rue their ‘hard-won independence’.
The Hensmans, and their sons Gary and Rory were amazing hosts. We travelled the length and breadth of that stunning country, from Lake Kariba and Hwange to Bulawayo and Inyanga. With as much polo as we could cope with thrown in. I soon learned to defer to the African-born Tristan - the Hensmans had lent us a Mercedes to drive to Victoria Falls and softie me would get royally ribbed at night for not wanting to sleep in the bush in case a Jerboa came along (they look like a miniature kangaroo), so I had the luxury of the back seat. Each to his own.
Kenya – Gulf war – Safari
“Those bloody Americans – don’t they understand that Kenya is not part of Iraq?” Tristan faxed me a map where he had put a big black arrow between Kenya and Iraq with ‘4,000 miles’ next to it, but they had all still cancelled. What is it they say? One man’s misfortune? Catrina and I were on the next plane out and sitting on Tristan and Cindy’s verandah looking forward to our own personal Offbeat safari, just the four of us.
Offbeat was brand new, and Tristan was determined that we were going to see the best of Kenya, from Baringo to the Mara, and so we did. Only one ‘incident’ that I can remember, when Tristan and I had left the girls in the Land Rover to look at some grazing hippos ‘the other side of the river’. The river turned out to be dry and one of the hippos decided she didn’t want to be watched while she ate. I took it seriously when I saw only a dust devil where Tristan had been standing next to me and two legs frantically waggling their way through the Land Rover window – if Tristan moves quickly, you move quickly too.
‘Sweet dreams’ – Tristan snuggling into his maggot after a hard evening in the Vic Falls
casino
As we were leaving Harare airport workmen were painting out the words ‘Salisbury’ and putting up ‘Harare’. How the population would learn to rue their ‘hard-won independence’.
The Hensmans, and their sons Gary and Rory were amazing hosts. We travelled the length and breadth of that stunning country, from Lake Kariba and Hwange to Bulawayo and Inyanga. With as much polo as we could cope with thrown in. I soon learned to defer to the African-born Tristan - the Hensmans had lent us a Mercedes to drive to Victoria Falls and softie me would get royally ribbed at night for not wanting to sleep in the bush in case a Jerboa came along (they look like a miniature kangaroo), so I had the luxury of the back seat. Each to his own.
Kenya – Gulf war – Safari
“Those bloody Americans – don’t they understand that Kenya is not part of Iraq?” Tristan faxed me a map where he had put a big black arrow between Kenya and Iraq with ‘4,000 miles’ next to it, but they had all still cancelled. What is it they say? One man’s misfortune? Catrina and I were on the next plane out and sitting on Tristan and Cindy’s verandah looking forward to our own personal Offbeat safari, just the four of us.
Offbeat was brand new, and Tristan was determined that we were going to see the best of Kenya, from Baringo to the Mara, and so we did. Only one ‘incident’ that I can remember, when Tristan and I had left the girls in the Land Rover to look at some grazing hippos ‘the other side of the river’. The river turned out to be dry and one of the hippos decided she didn’t want to be watched while she ate. I took it seriously when I saw only a dust devil where Tristan had been standing next to me and two legs frantically waggling their way through the Land Rover window – if Tristan moves quickly, you move quickly too.
I have one question for you all – when on safari with Tristan, were you also able to share a
bottle of whisky with him before dinner, every night, and get up and carry on regardless
the next day? Was it the Kenya air – or, as I suspect – some magical ingredient in Tristan’s
company?
Our final day was spent in the Muthaiga Club, drinking Moscow mules. After half a dozen Tristan suggested informal chukkers - off to Nairobi Polo Club. All fine - then to the airport - not so fine disembarking. I had locked up solid - and it nearly required a stretcher to disembark me at Heathrow.
Sadly for all of us – my story must end here. In the last three days I have spoken to more old friends than in the last ten years – and that is purely a reflection of how deeply and utterly Tristan touched all our lives. Like all of us, I have lost some close friends over the years, for none though, have I been prompted to put pen to paper like this.
We truly loved you Stan.
Our final day was spent in the Muthaiga Club, drinking Moscow mules. After half a dozen Tristan suggested informal chukkers - off to Nairobi Polo Club. All fine - then to the airport - not so fine disembarking. I had locked up solid - and it nearly required a stretcher to disembark me at Heathrow.
Sadly for all of us – my story must end here. In the last three days I have spoken to more old friends than in the last ten years – and that is purely a reflection of how deeply and utterly Tristan touched all our lives. Like all of us, I have lost some close friends over the years, for none though, have I been prompted to put pen to paper like this.
Two great Africans
We truly loved you Stan.
