SO vandals have been having their own peculiar brand of fun with the war memorial in Penhill.

Their childishness has left Royal British Legion members, who fought to save the monument three years ago, heartbroken.

Swear words, names and other nonsense have been etched on to the memorial and pieces of stone have been broken off.

It’s mind-boggling to think these vandals can really find nothing better to do with their time.

I mean, really, there’s a whole host of things to keep you busy – read a book, do the dishes, watch a movie, play Pokemon Go... anything. But don’t attack a memorial to people who were greater than you can ever dream of being.

Maybe the idiots who think we all need to know that “Lucy loves Josh” (breaking news, Josh – Lucy will go off you at some point and those tender words will be nothing more than a painful and embarrassing reminder) aren’t aware of what war memorials are all about.

So let me explain. I imagine the perpetrators don’t have a high enough reading level to read this themselves, so if you know one of them perhaps you could convey this in words of one syllable?

War memorials honour the men and women who sacrificed their lives in battle.

They did so because they believed our country and our way of life was worth fighting for. If none of them had bothered, there’s a chance we’d all be speaking German now and celebrating the Holocaust rather than mourning all those who died so brutally during it.

If these brave people hadn’t made the ultimate sacrifice you wouldn’t have the luxury of loafing around with time on your hands and graffiti on the brain. Your world would be a very different, far less pleasant one.

If I had a time travel machine, I’d like to lend it to you and send you back to a muddy field in the north of France in 1916.

I’d like you to stand, shivering and soaking, in a water-logged trench in the dead of winter as bullets and bombs fly through the air, shredding your nerves to such a degree that you will never recover.

I’d like you to feel, like so many young men your age did then, alone and terrified and homesick. And I’d like you to understand the true enormity of the horror of a battle in which one million people died.

And then I’d like you to return to the present day, set about making the repairs to the war memorial and every year on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, I’d like you to bow your head in respect for all those who shall not grow old as we that are left grow old.

It’s what this town is all about

THERE can be no one in this town who has not been touched by the tragic story of holidaymaker Michael Doyle.

Michael, from Pinehurst, set off on holiday to Bulgaria with his pals without a care in the world. Little did he or his loved ones know he was not to return.

After a three-week battle to save his life, the 29-year-old died of septicaemia, leaving his family and friends devastated.

It is such a horrendously sad tale, there are no words to express the sorrow we all feel or our sympathy for his distraught parents.

But as is so often the case in this little town of ours, in times of such heartache, people rush forth to offer help and support.

John Honeyman, who runs the Swiss Chalet, in Chapel Street, is organising a two-day fundraiser to help Michael’s family with the astronomical costs they have incurred through his illness and repatriation.

“This event needs to be as big as we can get it and we don’t have a lot of time to organise it,” said John as he put out a rally cry to all sponsors, bands, raffle prize givers and anyone who can do anything at all to help make the event the success it deserves to be.

“This isn’t my gig, it is the whole of Swindon’s gig,” he added.

And that sums up this town beautifully.

When tragedy befalls one of our own, we’re not too busy and too enmeshed in our own lives to do anything. We roll up our sleeves and pull together to do whatever we can to ease the pain and suffering of those affected.

Well done to John and to all those who help with his bank holiday extravaganza. I hope Michael knows how well loved he was.

  • I’M beginning to wonder whether I’ve been attacked by zombies and what appears to be my brain is now actually nothing but mulch and goo (or whatever happens to your brain following a zombie attack).

    The reason for my concern? Well.

    I’m a bit confused by this ban that’s just been announced on zombie knives.

    These blades are up to two feet long, serrated and it doesn’t take much imagination to conjure up the kind of damage they could cause.

    What’s confusing me is that knives are already banned, alongside a host of other offensive weapons. So surely the current law would automatically extend to the zombie blade without the need for any amendments?

    Otherwise people can simply keep inventing new instruments of torture with new names and get away with selling them until the law is updated again.