Spike 2 Agave Parrasena

A simple plant, leave it alone it grows, mess with it and it sulks. We cut the spikes off to protect the garden fairy's eyes and those of Toots and the grandsons. It has been known as 'Spike' since I first planted it about 11 years ago.
Yesterday I introduced you to a man who had a huge influence on my early life as a young Marine, RSM Spike Kelly. Today a little chuckle. In 1972 41 Commando was embarked in one of Her Majesty's War Canoes, HMS Bulwark an aircraft carrier converted to carry Commandos, known to one and all as the "Rusty B." We were on our way from our base in Malta to Cyprus, Crete and Turkey for training.
We had changed from our european kit into Med kit, ie boots, puttees, long socks, shorts and shirts. It was incumbent upon us all to acclimatise as quickly as possible, so sunbathing was a bit of a ritual. The first Sunday out of Valletta the CO decided we would hold a church service for his agnostic atheists on the flight deck. Now a CO's parade can be a thing of wonder, it's very simple but requires that you are immaculate and your drill equally so, or Sunday can become a very long day.

I was in F Company, in the front rank facing the island superstructure of the carrier. The Sky Pilot, CO and RSM, (Spike) were gathered beneath the island directly opposite me about 25 metres away across the flight deck. At the appropriate point in the god bothering process we were ordered to "Off Caps." ie remove our berets. It was at this point that I knew fear of an irrational kind. I was certain I was about to die very shortly and that death would not be pleasant. As the Sky Pilot droned on about the futility of trying to fool an omnipresent presence I knew he was talking about the RSM. His gaze was fixed on me and there was steam exiting all available orifices. When the CO had decided enough was enough the unit was handed back to Spike and he marched off everybody else except the company I was in. Our Sergeant Major was puzzled; I was nearly filling my nappy as Spike marched, as only an RSM can do, straight at me.

He stopped in front of the man on my right, about 6 inches in front of him to be exact. He snarled and frothed at the mouth. "Take off your beret!" The man was an elderly chap by comparison to the rest of us babies of 19-20. He was at least 35 and had male pattern baldness, consequently he had adopted not one but two Bobby Charltonesque comb-overs. These were known as Pigeon Wings. When he removed his beret his hair took off like a panicked pigeon. Spike went ape-shit and ordered him to get it all cut off yesterday.

Once we had been marched away and let loose I grabbed Ginge, for such was his name, and thanked him for saving my life, I could have kissed him. Ginge was very philosophical, in fact on reflection he looked and sounded very much like Churchill from the TV insurance adverts.