My Two Brollies.

My Two Brollies.

I have never owned an umbrella. That’s the long one right? Can be used as a walking stick. Kingsman. John Steed. That one.

I have only ever owned two brollies. Much smaller. Fits in a pocket, bag or a utility pouch (pronounced pooch).

My first brolly was purchased by me at a High Street retailer in the mid 1990’s prior to my first trip to Southeast Asia. A friend and seasoned jungle warrior in Special Forces recommended the purchase as an essential addition to your webbed gear and fighting order when I was due to attend Jungle Warfare training in Borneo. My first reaction to this, as you can more than imagine, was dubious and with baited breath I waited for the punchline and the “reedeedee” of a right royally jape and personal attack at my adaptations of soldiering, particularly now I had two operational tours under my belt and had even been blown up. I wondered how a miniature mobile shelter could enhance the already awesome Commando Joe. I had made several purchases that day based on the information gleaned from other veterans of the “J”; namely: lycra shorts to reduce chafe from wet tropical combats and the chance of contracting jungle willy, scentless antiseptic soap, pan scourers, that would be used with the soap to scrub dead skin off your back and try and stop prickly heat. I went to two retailers before I found a standard black self-loading brolly that was about seven inches in length. Price: five crisp new English Pounds Stirling. I had previously acquired some custom made utility pouches (pronounced pooches) for my belt gear where my brolly would find residence. I also bought the Reservoir Dogs soundtrack on cassette.

In the crisp autumnal afternoon in England’s southwest I walked the streets squinting out the low sun, until I saw some colleagues up to similar activities. We decided to adjourn to a local tavern for a few afternoon wets and swap notes on what was best for the jungle and what may be a prudent purchase, convinced that all issued kit was rubbish except the socks and foo-foo (talcum) powder. At no point did I mention the brolly. Back at camp I serviced my kit and made and mended until I was 100 per cent satisfied these adaptations would improve my ability and stature as a soldier, as well as survive to fight in the notorious primary jungle of Brunei. I sprayed the brolly in the deployed open mode with tan and green aerosol paint in a distorted pollockesque motif leaving some of the black of its original state to infuse with the design. On completion it was stowed nicely in the rear pouch (pronounced pooch) where my VHF radio would also live. And 30 meters of string. I was pleased with the whole arrangement and even fastened a plastic tent peg to the existing lanyard so it could be secured to the rain forest floor when working in hard routine, much to the job description passed on to me.

Brolly one, as it is more affectionately remembered, was a complete success. It surpassed itself in its rain protecting and light extinguishing duties. When the wet season rain crashed through the canopy of the forest my brolly protected my head and shoulders or blocked the entrance of a bivouac. Even on breaks from the long marches on the ridgelines of the Labi, I would deploy the brolly on one knee if I was stopped for more than ten minutes. I was very sparing with its use at the beginning of the deployment for fear of ridicule, however slowly and surely its use increased as my team members absorbed the merits of its use. I felt so proud. As far as I knew there was nowhere to buy a brolly in Tutong. Only noodles. This was to my brolly tour. Beyond the jungles of Southeast Asia the brolly held its own in other environments, this included the wild mountains of south Wales, the bleak landscape of Dartmoor and the Veld of South Africa, my brolly completed the Feng Shui of lean to’s, bivvies’ and hard routine on solid ground in observation positions in Northern Ireland. On my Junior NCO’s course I was able to sit up in my sleeping bag and complete orders and patrol reports with white light with the aid of the versatile parasol. Later on operations in Iraq my literally weather beaten brolly increased the effectiveness of infra-red sights in the frequent down pours that would normally affect the heat sensitive glass on the unit. Its success also got the admiration of my fellow steely eyed dealers of death, to such an extent that the unit store ordered a box of brollies and charged a 30% surcharge. As my career progressed I moved around the bazaars of the Commando brigade, those unaware of brolly benefits and its effectiveness on the professional soldier mocked. But the mockery largely came from the types who rarely went into the field properly. Others mocked, but it rolled off my back. Because I knew. The mocking fools.

Some years later I was in west London. It was late October of almost tropical misgiving. It had been one of those London Octobers that has every promise of being autumnal at the beginning and out of nowhere, a long weekend of mid-summer sun, shorts, t-shirts and Pimms on the Hammersmith Mall; if you liked that sort of thing. This would soon descend into standard Autumn conditions and become frosty prior to the Lord Mayor of London parade. The warm city air rose and sucked in the cold air descending over the suburbs and the sense of a storm was approaching. The transverse currents travelled around the streets gusting all and sundry. A blue and white striped plastic bag danced timelessly, tossing and swooping on invisible string. I quickened my pace along Lillie Road heading towards West Brompton tube station as the first drops of rain discoloured my shirt. By the time I reached the bridge at Seagrave Road my shirts shoulders had darkened and rainwater was channelling from behind my ears and under my chin. As I reached the tube station entrance a man of oriental descent had appeared, as if by magic, with a cardboard box, in a large felt tipped pen he had etched -Brollys’£5-. At first I questioned the grammar and was tempted to enquire which brolly had the ability to acquire wealth. These brollies were of similar appearance to my old companion, they had not been affected by inflation and had an upgrade with the addition of a firing mechanism on the handle which would launch the device into full operation. They were also black and had a slightly cocked handle, similar to Count Dooku’s lightsabre. I knew several things: the change in my pocket amounted to a little over four pounds, the weather was plummeting to biblical proportions and my walk from Stamford Brook to Valetta Road would be wet, I had never owned a brolly as a civilian and would the purchase be appropriate. Negating the latter I made the transaction on the promise that I would never be in a position to settle the 22p balance I owed and received my second ever brolly. After the change of tubes under the canopy of Earls Court station, there was no requirement to deploy the brolly. However, I did discover that with the cover over the end of the brolly head I could press the trigger and the shaft would extend with a clunk. On the second leg of my journey I did this several times each time reloading the item as if I was breaching a cartridge into a Remington pump action shot gun. I departed the train and leapt down the stairs leading to Goldhawk Road two at a time, oyster card in one hand and unsheathed brolly in the other; cocked and ready for action. The rain was heavy and rivulets gushed from the cambers of the roads into steep sided kerbs. This was it. I pressed the button and the brolly head launched from the handle and bottom spring, along the shaft whereby instead of deploying its canopy for my protection, it continued in an impressive arc apexing at around two to three meters from my position below. At this stage the parachute opened and, picked up by a sudden gust, headed towards Shepherds Bush. Nonchalantly I increased my gait and filtered into the less than adequate crowd leaving the station into the down pour and towards Stamford Brook Common with the handle still in my grasp.

I have never since owned a brolly.