Latest fashionable expression: tanks on your lawn

(domraab.blogspot.com)

OPINION – I listen to the radio a lot (in English it’s BFBS2 because there are no real alternatives – and then I only hear the Today programme or other news, because I cannot believe how that station, aimed at members of the forces, talks down to its listeners who do not deserve that kind of disrespect, but that’s another rant for another day). Anyway, I heard our friend Nigel Farage (still don’t know the origin of his very un-English surname) say something about parking his tanks on Labour’s lawn. Knowing as little as possible about our Nigel, it wouldn’t surprise me that he would actually do that, in a drunken rage, likely as not, and in any case, I doubt he’s ever lived under circumstances as told below. But I do know something about the expression itself (and prefer not to even mention Farage despite his party's victory at Clacton last night ...):

It happened before I got there from another boarding school (where the ceiling had fallen in on my bed while I was cleaning my teeth – I was soon removed from this dangerous place). The new establishment was the epitome of good education (the Eton of the country, we kept getting told): teachers came all the way from England, Scotland, possibly even Wales, from Canada and South Africa or Australia, and other places. Almost all of them had been to either Oxford or Cambridge – and they gave their classes in the afternoon; in the morning we did the obligatory curriculum in Spanish, with equally well qualified teachers. It’ the afternoon ones I want to talk about.

Being mostly of English, or at least of British descent, and young, and carefree and earning well, they were somewhat prone to over imbibing. For the most part they were very well behaved, or so we were led to believe.

Being of the above descent, and thus not particularly interested in their surroundings abroad, they apparently were not aware that the country was in the hands of a very nasty dictatorship, and run with fear by Eva Peron’s husband, the infamous Evita (to whom we were obliged to sing a hymn every morning, and to her husband, before the National Anthem, as the flag was raised). He ran the country through his military cronies.

The main quadrangle of the school contained a bust of José de San Martín, the man who led the country to freedom from the yoke of Spanish colonialism, and thus a national hero.

One morning the plinth on which San Martín had been sitting for years was bereft of its illustrious guest. One of the gardeners, a fanatic follower of the dictator immediately reported the dastardly fact to the police, who flew round to see for themselves.

Not long afterwards, one of the teachers, whose name shall remain in humorous ignominy, appeared on the premises, much the worse for wear but clutching San Martín’s in his arms, having tenderly enveloped it in a scarf, like a baby.

As soon as he was noticed by the Headmaster, the bust was replaced immediately and the teacher swept away to his native land under cover of darkness. He would certainly have ended up in jail, if not under execution.

From thereon in, army tanks would periodically appear, usually three in number, and park on the main rugby field, aiming their barrels at the dormitories of young boys (oh, yes, it was a boy’s boarding school, girls being allowed after I left, to my eternal chagrin) who mostly belonged to the upper classes and whose parents were therefore against Perón’s regime. Still, the children of ambassadors and the high and mighty (not me, I was there on a bursary) were unlikely to be targets of the dictatorship, but if you ask any of the old boys who were there at the time, they will recall every detail – if there are any old boys left, that is.

Looking back on it, even if the story is third hand, and in the role of parent, this was not a pleasant time. And having lived under five different dictatorships in as many countries, I can confirm they are much of a sameness, no matter to what political colour they belong.