Journalist Cassandra (Bill Connor) of the Daily Mirror

A Navy lark on my ship

Singapore Naval Base, December 23, 1961.

Out here in this sweaty and booming town there is one of Her Majesty's ships by the name of Cassandra. Also out here there is one of Her Majesty's subjects - again under the name of Cassandra. Last night both parties went into joint action to celebrate the advent of Christmas.

I came here at the invitation of Commander Spencer Drummond to make sure that all who sail under the flag and name of the original Greek prophetess of woe and disaster should have a thundering good time as the Eve of Christmas approaches. In short, we did. Just about 200 Cassandrites - I think it may have been two or three pintfuls more - assembled here in the Armada Club at the Naval Base.

Christmas at home in Britain is, by iron tradition, a matter of snow, of holly, of red berries, of old Santa with his beard and cloak and loaded sack. Also Good King Wenceslas with his page and the white stuff deep and crisp and even all around.

Out here just 70 miles north of the Equator? No snow. No holly. No red berries. And only the damp enfolding heat - about 84 degrees right at this moment.

But in company with all the lads of H.M.S. Cassandra we did old Santa proud.

This ship, the ship you taxpayers bought and still maintain, this ship that My Lords of the Admiralty run - and damn you, MY ship - has been out here in the Far East for more than two years now.

There was a break recently when our ship, their ship, your ship, MY ship had to belt off at about 23 knots to look after the trouble that suddenly flared up off Kuwait.

When it was cold there on board H.M.S. Cassandra in those Arabian waters, the temperature lurked around 105 degrees. When it was hot - well, it was as hot as hell.

Last night here in Singapore, as the evening baked on, it got a bit warm, too.

At 7.30 sharp in this most excellent N.A.A.F.I. club the lads marched into my Cassandra party looking suspiciously innocent and polite. When I greeted them they had - or most of them had - that faint expression of infant charm and sweetness and light that usually ends with us all stamping on the table bawling Sweet Adeline, Frankie and Johnnie and arguing that if there are any coppers around here, ask 'em up and we'll tell them exactly what to do.

There were hula-hula girls to arouse our most gallant instincts.

A vast cake built by confectioners who must have been brought up in a community of giants, with appetites to match.

American turkey - damn these Yanks, they seem to be everywhere.

York ham - that's better, me lads.

Spring chicken. Sirloin of beef. Fresh lobster - I particularly liked the chap who wanted the casing instead of the innards.

Mixed pickles. Smoked salmon.

Black pearly caviar - damn these Russians, they seem to be everywhere.

Anchovy eggs. Sausage rolls. Sardine fingers. 

And a Very Merry Christmas to you all.

The crew of Her Majesty's ship Cassandra, your Cassandra, MY Cassandra, is in excellent good heart.

As the proceedings rose to their defiant and jubilant climax I managed to say a few words to the ship's company.

I record with exhausted pleasure that the mightiest roar of the whole thunderous evening broke all records when I proposed the toast of the wives, the sweethearts, the mums, the dads, and the nippers at home.

Just off the Equator, and very far from the snowline, I wish all of you who have heard of the name of Cassandra, whether it has to do with ships, sealing wax, cabbages, kings, or my particular daily trouble in the public prints, a very happy and most joyful Christmas.