Spike

These small forks made in SW France, designed for hors d'ouvres, are one of a small amount of goodies made from olive wood that you feel you cannot live without once you have used them - honest. The pointed end is viciously sharp, hence Spike.
Sometimes a story has to be told in reverse to make sense; if I may I'll tell you about a man who died this week, known to one and all who new him as "Spike." For the past 10 days I have had a "need" to get in touch with Spike and write to him, my sixth sense was twitching. Hearing about his death knocked me off my feet last night, a great man and character has left the world's stage. Try and bear with me, follow the line of thought if you can.
Communities of all creeds, colour and race utilise the word "respect" when what they really mean is "fear." I doubt many of the rabid young who demand "respect" would ever know a man such as Spike. He was Regimental Sergeant Major Spike Kelly of Her Majesty's Corps Royal Marines. My first RSM as a young Marine in 41 Commando. All those with the surname Kelly are known as Spike, automatically whether they like it or not.

Now to reverse the tale. In September 2007, 1500 of the extended Royal Marines family gathered to bury Major General John Jeremy Moore MC and Bar. (He was awarded the Military Cross twice) at Wells Cathedral, Baroness Thatcher attended; Jeremy Moore commanded the land forces in the Falklands and received the Argentine surrender in Port Stanley.
For some reason which escapes me our classic buildings attract the vermin of our society; prior to the funeral cortege arriving the First Drill had advised a group of low-life to disappear from the Cathedral precincts or face his men, the Police did not want to know. They went. After the funeral a bunch of 1500 friends made polite conversation then made their way off to their homes. I had been accompanied by a friend, Pat, a surgeon, formerly a Marine who understood that my latest knees were causing some pain. On the way back to the car park I realised a lady with an elderly gentleman was looking at me. Being attracted to any female I enquired if I might be of assistance, smooth as a lizard at sunset. It transpired that this was Mrs Kelly with Spike. He had recognised me from 32 years ago when I was a lad. I was stunned, to be in his presence and to be able to chat to him. Pat and I were in our element, we accompanied them to the car park, en-route Pat and I picked up that three scum were trailing us, so carefully and quietly placed the RSM and his lady inside and shielded them. The scum leader then hurled a bunch of insults and spat on Pat. Mistake.
I stood in front of the RSM and his lady and defied the other two, who were beginning to understand a serious error of judgement had been made, at least one of them was going to hospital with me. Pat had caught the leader and to the dismay of the residents of Wells caused him to fall to the ground having foolishly collided with Pat's huge paw. Pat assisted him to his feet whereupon the semi-conscious crud again collided with Pat's paw. The now completely comatose scumbag was dropped to the deck and Pat returned to continue where we left off. Spike was grinning from ear to ear. Far from being discomfited he shook our hands and thanked us, "For making his day!" Mrs Kelly was also enjoying Spike's happiness. He was back amongst Bootnecks.
I hope you can see from my viewpoint that "Respect" is earned, never given freely or simply due to status. Something I fear our underclass will never understand.
That was the last time I saw Spike. Something else happened during that walk. I'll save that for later. Until then, RIP Spike, duty done, rest easy Sir.