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Found 6 results

  1. Not sure who or why, will let you know when I hear something else
  2. The Ozcans

    Bomb Threat London

    With Queenie visiting Ireland tomorrow, there's been a serious threat today. "Explaining the code word system, Mr Black said today's events had a very "retro feel", harking back to the height of the dissident republican movement in the 1970s. Terror groups would use an intermediary to let the police know a code word, so that when a bomb threat came through, they would know to take it seriously." http://news.sky.com/skynews/Home/UK-News/Bomb-Threat-London-Irish-Republican-Dissidents-Issue-Coded-Bomb-Threat-For-London/Article/201105315993005?lpos=UK_News_Top_Stories_Header_3&lid=ARTICLE_15993005_Bomb_Threat_London%3A_Irish_Republican_Dissidents_Issue_Coded_Bomb_Threat_For_London Keep 'em peeled!
  3. Guest

    New sol

    hey everyone any ideas on when the new SOL might be out? :jiggy:
  4. Car bomb explodes near Northern Ireland MI5 base - Local & National, News - Belfasttelegraph.co.uk The blast came as law and order policy was returned to Stormont at midnight, marking the end of 38 years of Whitehall control. The bomb also comes in the wake of the first anniversary of the deaths of two British soldiers - Mark Quinsey, 23, and Sapper Patrick Azimkar, 21 - who were gunned down by the Real IRA outside Massereene Army barracks in Antrim town in March last year.
  5. THE BOMB OR THE BRIG FOR BRITISH SAILORS Thirty-nine years ago Ex-Royal Naval rating Brian Hunt stood with his back turned on the deck of H.M.S. Narvik, bracing himself to endure one of the world’s most awesome events - the detonation of a 60-megaton nuclear bomb. He admits he was curious. 'But we'd been ordered to remain where we were until we head: "About face!" So we didn't look.’ Today, as the storm rages over the scheduled French test at Mururoa atoll, the 63-year-old sailor has this advice for Greenpeace volunteers threatening to dig themselves into the sand: ‘Forget it.’ For Brian Hunt is a sick man. He suffers from depression and his voice and hands shake. His daughter was born with no muscles on one side of her chest. His grandson was born with teeth missing from one side of his face; "the dental surgeon said in all his years of experience he had never seen such a case before." The sailors mustered on to the deck off the Montebello Islands off the coast of Western Australia in 1956 obeyed when they were told to turn their backs on the blast. ‘Then we were allowed to turn around and see the mushroom cloud. We wore no protective clothing or even dark glasses. We saw the mushroom expanding, moving turbulently, just like I’ve seen water at the bottom of a spillway when floodgates have been opened. Boiling in on itself. ‘There was no noise at first. We felt a wave of heat and wind and everything lit up even though it was broad daylight. Then we heard the bang.’ Was there any choice about witnessing the explosion. ‘Either that or be put in the cells,’ says Brian, who still has "horrible dreams" about what he saw. Within days he and his mates were sent ashore to retrieve electronic equipment from the island. ‘We were given white overalls, gloves and rubber boots for protection. I remember kneeling down and the sand got into my boots. Behind the instruments there was a timber wall 12 inches thick. The wood had turned to charcoal. I put my fist through it. ‘Nobody told us that similar tests had been carried out in 1952 and that the whole area had been contaminated before our arrival. We were never warned by doctors about genetic effects that could be expected from what we had come into contact with.’ Seven months ago Brian was put off his painting job at Penrith, New South Wales, as medically unfit. He is a stoical man, doesn't grumble; just admits he is too "scared" to have further medical tests to find out what else he may have besides bad nerves. 'It's like living with a time-bomb.' He worries, instead, about others, and took the trouble to write to the local newspaper last week: "I am a British-born Australian who served with the Royal Navy from 1949 to 1957. On my last ship, we spent 18 months at Montebello island..where we witnessed two nuclear tests. What we didn't know was that tests had been carried out in 1952 and the area was contaminated before our arrival. I am now a member of the British Nuclear Tests Veterans Association and I know from information we have that at least 50% of nuclear veterans have died due to the effects of radiation received at the time. 'And in some cases it effected not just those who were present, but their children and their childrens' children. This is why I was so saddened to learn of the French plan for nuclear testing. 'I call on France and the rest of the world to stop this madness now before the planet is destroyed.' Brian and his fellow victims have received no compensation from the British Government. 'There's been no mention of it. We are still fighting in England to just seek recognition of what happened to us. We don't really want large payouts; I think that's what the Government is scared of anyway. 'If you were a hypochondriac you could worry yourself to death about it. 'Hasn't the world learned anything from Hiroshima, Nagasaki and Chernobyl? It's everybody’s business. Prime Minister Keating and his men should get together and protest in the strongest possible terms. Atomic radiation doesn't go away in weeks or months. It lasts for hundreds of years. What happened to me is something you have to learn to live with for the rest of your life. Just like a nightmare. 'What the French plan to do is arrogant madness.'
  6. Guest

    Tahiti - Before The Bomb

    TAHITI - BEFORE THE BOMB As the English poet, Rupert Brooke, sailed away from the Tahiti he had lost his heart to, he wrote in his diary:"I looked for the Southern Cross as usual, and the moon; and looked for it in vain. It had gone down below the horizon. It is still shining and wheeling for those good brown people in the islands and they're laughing and kissing and swimming and dancing beneath it. "I reflected that there was surely nothing else like them in this world, and very probably nothing in the next, and that I was going far away from gentleness and beauty and kindliness, and the smell of the lagoons, and the thrill of that dancing, and the scarlet of the flamboyants, and the white and gold of other flowers; and I was going to America, which is full of harshness and hideous sights, and ugly people. So I wept a little, and very sensibly went to bed..." **** My photo album falls open at a picture of me arriving in Papeete 40 years later, being kissed by a long-haired vahine wearing a grass skirt, gently placing a lei of frangipani over my head. It was 1957 and I was on my way to England, the sun sparkling on the sea as we slid into port, razor mountains soaring as a backdrop to a little town half-hidden by palms. I can still feel the rat-tat of drumsticks on coconut husks coming from the wharf as we draw closer; hear the guitars; and see the shimmer of grass skirts on swaying vahine hips. And smell the overpowering scent of frangipani leis. And there, on the dock, stood The Englishman, a thin, distinguished figure, among the welcoming smiles from huge brown eyes and feminine childish laughter as crew and passengers attempt the frantic, hip-swinging, pelvis-grinding tamure in front of the band. Peter Brooke, the poet's cousin, had, I was told, departed the City of London to do what so many had dreamed about, but never had the courage to execute. The Tahiti he introduced to me on his moped that day , was an island of music, dancing and uncomplicated fun; laughing the night away with a Hinano beer in your hand; jig jig, (if you got lucky), in the shadow of the palms; getting sunburned as you rode out to the Gauguin Museum on the coast road. No talk of bombs. No worries about radiation. Putt-putting back to his village one night, feeling no pain, our moped suddenly stalled in a great pool of water from an evening thunderstorm. Soaked to the skin, the flower behind his ear dropping off, Peter shouted to me: "Thank God we're British!" It seemed extraordinarily funny after five Hinanos. We'd been drinking at Quinn's Tahitian Hut with its democratic 'mixed' toilet ('we are all here together, M'sieu', a vahine laughed from the next cubicle), Bar Lia, with its din of throbbing electric guitars; and the more sophisticated Zi-Zou's where French officials danced. Peter Brooke, sober and sipping coffee, told me next day how he had suddenly given up a City stockbroker's job and "caught the 8.40 from Guildford to the City one morning, for the last time." Greying, thin, face deely tanned, he sat in faded flowered shirt, a frangipani petal behind his ear, explaining the impetuous decision that would change his life forever.... 'I was just fed up with commercialism and modern industrial life; I had a good job, made good money and knew I could plan my life until I was 80." He rolled a cigarette and contemplated a table nearby of giggling vahines laughing behind their hands at his drawling accents. He went on: 'Everything was laid out for me. I knew I could be rich. But, you know, riches to me are riches of the mind; riches of a way of living; riches of personality and genuineness. And more and more in England, genuineness was giving way to hypocrisy. Business morality and private morality had for its motto the 11th. Commandment: Thou shalt not get found out. 'I had read about Tahiti in Cook, Bougainville, Pierre Loti, Gauguin and my cousin, Rupert Brooke. They all said it was unique. They hadn't said that about Tonga, or Honolulu or Samoa. I came to my decision on the abdication of the Prince of Wales. My father, who was sitting in an armchair when I told him, said: "My boy you are an escapist." Now,' he said, laughing across to the girls who lived in his village, ‘I have been here 12 years. And from the moment one of those charming Tahitians put a lei around my neck as I stepped on the wharf, I knew they were right...' Papeete, he said, waving his cigarette at it, was "a dirty little town where Chinese restaurants served awful food"; where women squatted on the dockside plaiting leis of yellow and white frangipani; and small hotels, like the one still standing, where his poet cousin had become ill. ("I haven't enough money to get out," Rupert Brooke had written to a friend. "And I've found the most ideal place in the world to live and work in.") Papeete, he said, was "like a Renaissance Italy, with the venom taken out." Forty years later Peter, now 60, brewed up tea from a bunch of lime leaves he tugged from a tree outside his village hut window and asked: 'Could there be anything better than this?' Of course, he was right.