New lines for old

A rather attractive friend asked me the other day What's your secret for staying so young looking I'm sure I don't know what you mean I replied, well your face is devoid of wrinkles, and I know you haven't had a face lift. I was tempted to say plenty of sex, but it's an old line and she would have seen through that right away.

Actually its very simple I said, eat yourself silly, put on lots of weight, the wrinkles will disappear like magic and its more fun than going under the knife. She seemed a little annoyed at my apparent flippancy so I explained further. Have you ever seen a balloon that has deflated over a period of time? It looks withered and wrinkly, but blow it up again and the wrinkles are gone, it's the same principle.

She looked puzzled, but surely when you loose the weight the wrinkles will reappear won't they. Nope I replied confidently, not anywhere she said, Nope I replied again, nowhere at all she persisted. Well maybe one or two places I admitted but nothing public as it were.

She gave me a sidelong glance, there was a cheeky little smile on her face, are you going to tell me where she said in a girly voice, certainly not I replied, I'm a gentleman. I see she said slyly, and when aren't you a gentleman. I laps a little when I have had a drink I said, she grabbed my arm and pulled me towards the runt and strumpet public house, come on I'll buy you a drink.

Junk mail

I received another one of those contact magazines this morning; it landed with a thud behind my front door. They get bigger every month, I can only assume that more people are abandoning their morals and subscribing to these rags. You know the kind of thing I mean, A3 size, colourful front page but chocked full of small black and white pictures of people in various poses, offering all kinds of services to the discerning pervert.
My eyesight isn't what it used to be so I find it impossible to read the captions, and the pictures are of so bad a quality that I have to take a magnifying glass to them to make out anything at all. They have been popping through my door since the first day I moved into the house, so its a fair bet that the previous occupants are to blame for this assault on my intellect. I did a little research in the early days and it appears that prior to my living there it was occupied by two young ladies who entertained a lot, sometimes at quite unsociable hour's one neighbour complained.
I know for a fact that some chap named Killroy paid many visits to the house and the local police were frequently to be seen knocking on the door, I assume to ask them to turn the music down or something. Anyway they have been arriving without fail despite my attempts at getting them stopped. I have made several phone calls to the number listed in the mag and sent many letters, all to no avail, still they come. I give up, unless any of you out there have any ideas I suppose I will just have to put up with it.

Big Boy Manchester

Goths of yore

There has been a Goth scene in one form or another for many years, only the people that take up a Gothic lifestyle, and the lengths to which they are prepared to go in the dress department change. A sweeping statement I know but I can back it up, at least as far back as the sixties anyway. From a very early age I devoured horror stories, the more gruesome they were the better I liked them. This in itself is no proof of course but it does give you some idea of the type of thing that impressed my young mind.

There was a kind of comfort in wet cobbled streets lit only by gas light, and as the better part of Manchester had not yet succumbed to the modern estate, the Victorian slum type of environment is where I grew up. It can be said that although the crumbling, mice, and cockroach infested back to back houses that I spent my formative years in were a scourge to the working class family. They held a charm for me that could not be replaced by inside toilets, or hot, and cold running water. There is something friendly about the way distemper peels of the wall with age, and creates landscapes, and portrait's that change with the passing years.

And every street had at least one gas lamp that everybody gathered round at night to talk, and swap stories, it was usually foggy even in the summer, and this made it all the more mysterious. In the sixties I formed a band with some pals of mine, we were called the Minute Men later Strife our mode of dress was strange for the time.

When everybody else was wearing bright happy clothes, we were clad in black, and augmented our dress with anything that was out of the ordinary as long as it was unusual, we had to be careful though at the time people were not as tolerant as they are now. Sometimes we would turn up for a gig, and be told that we couldn't go on stage dressed as we were. One M.C. said very abruptly that people have come here to be entertained, not to watch four undertakers ponce about on stage. We changed our name to the undertakers for a while but had to revert back to the Minute men because there was another group called the undertakers who did quite well I believe.

One of the group members Pete Hall and I started a club in the sixties, it was situated over a cafe on Hyde road in Gorton, and we had the whole of the first floor. We painted every wall black, or dark purple and furnished it with regency type furniture that was cadged from a night club across the road that had undergone a refit after being taken over by new
Management. At the time I was working during the day at Bell Vue amusement park selling tickets at Madam Tussauds waxworks, and as I was without a home then also sleeping at the waxworks at night.

Several of my friends asked to spend the night there, but they nearly always left before morning unnerved by the lifelike figures. Had they seen them in the cold light of day they would not have been so frightened, it had been many years since the dummies were made, and they were in a sad state of repair, still skillful lighting gave them a threatening air.
I had access to many props from Bell Vue, and they all found there way to the club, and gave it the atmosphere that we craved.

We spent many happy times there, none of the shops on either side of the cafe was lived in so we could make as much noise as we wished the music was always loud, and sometimes the group played. The thing that sticks in my mind from this time is that we were all terribly polite to each Other for some reason, as I said the club lasted for two years, and then the rot set in.

For some time after the club had started I had been helping a friend of mine (who just happened to be a lady of the night) out with one or two things that had been troubling her. Suffice it to say that she was eternally grateful for all I had done for her, and wished to repay me (no not that way. Her chance to help me came when the powers that be, namely the rates officer from Manchester town hall came knocking at the cafe door demanding to know why the premises licensed only for food and beverage, was now being used for entertainment.

Of course we were shut down the end of an era, or so I thought, in fact it was the beginning of a new era, an introduction to the darker, darker side of life. My lady friend stepped in with an offer, the club across the street from the cafe where we had acquired some of the furniture, and fittings for our own club had recently shut down. The manager who was the reason my lady friend actually moved to Manchester, wanted me to run my club from his club two nights a week. The only string was that I was to allow certain friends of his, who were a lot like us (his words not mine) to become members.

Now at the time there were only about forty or fifty Gothic type people that I knew of apart from the odd one that had heard about us from word of mouth, and came to the club on the weekends from out of town. So to be told that there were quite a few like minded people waiting in the wings as it were who wanted to join our little band was quite a shock. It was however nothing to the shock I was to receive when our friends turned up. About the second week of opening, I say opening but in fact it was a closed doors club for members only, and only I, the manager of the premises, and later the police were to know who frequented this den of iniquity.

The night's entertainment usually began about nine-o clock and went on into the early hours. Sometimes I would find myself staggering home at seven in the morning, and sleeping all day, we confined our little gatherings to the small dance floor, and bar this kept things cosy, and meant that we didn't have to have too many lights on, there was the law to consider.
Our out of town friends arrived a couple of weeks after we opened, they had booked a coach, and the first thing that they asked for was somewhere to get changed, a not unreasonable request as I have said people who were into the Goth thing were considered a little strange at that time, and they were not about to travel across town dressed like Nosferatu.

I would give anything now to have a photograph of the expression on my face when our guests filed into the dance area dressed in little more than black patent leather, belts and chains. They were all practitioners of B.D.S.M. Nobody would give them a second look nowadays but in the sixties just to dress that way was immoral. Nobody said a word it was as if this kind of thing happened all the time to us. As I have said earlier we were a very polite group, and we just carried on dancing and drinking but it was obvious that this had unnerved everyone.
At one point I was stood at the bar talking to a man dressed in a PVC belt, and a black leather hood that covered most of his face. He was well spoken and he thanked me and my little band of pals for allowing them to attend, "places where we can go for a drink and relax are few and far between" he said, "really" I replied with a hint of wonder in my voice.

To be fair they were not a bad bunch at all and over the next couple of months we were to get to know them quite well, never did I see any impropriety. They seemed content just to dress as they wished, have a few drinks, and dance the night away, it is funny though to see someone dressed like an executioner dancing with a lady attired in fishnet tights, tight black plastic skirt, and spiked heels. Having said that it more or less sums up the way a lot of Goths dress today.

Our good times were not to last though as is always the case when people enjoy themselves, there is usually some miserable little bugger who cant stand the thought of people who are a little different from them having fun, and in due course the club was raided, 80 or so of our happy band were arrested, and taken to Whitworth St police station, were we were held for a couple of hours and then allowed to go home. None of us were charged, or questioned apart from the very well spoken gent with the hood I mentioned before, he must have had some clout with the police, though I can't begin to imagine why. There was some mention of it in the Manchester evening news, but it referred to after hours drinking by revellers celebrating Halloween...in July?

Teachers

Throughout my life I have met people who have had such an influence on the way that I think, it would be impossible to forget them. They all formed in part the way I behaved as an adult. The biggest influence of all was, my Father, but there were people on the fringe, people who were part of my life for only a short time but who laid the foundations for the person who is me.


Mrs Meadows, my primary school teacher. She was the first female that made me aware of the subtle differences between men, and woman, I was always a confident child, but in her presence I became jelly man. I knew that girls couldn't run as fast as boys, or throw a ball properly, and they had that annoying habit of sticking their bottoms out that I came to love in later years. But Mrs Meadows was different in a different way; she made my head itch which was a sure sign that we were made for each other. The fact that I was eight years old, and she must have been in her late twenties made not the slightest difference to me. I was going to have her, and that was that. Over a period of a few days I formulated a plan. It was very simple, I would sing her a love song, and she would instantly fall in love with me, I knew it would work because a chap had done the same thing on the telly, and he had got the girl. When the day came to put my plan into action I was nervous but confident. As the class filed out of the lesson to go outside to play, I told her that I would very much like to sing her a song, "sing away David" she trilled. So sing I did but not the love song I had practised, I couldn't remember a word of that so instead I gave her a rather long rendition of Tulips from Amsterdam, which went down rather well. After I had stopped singing she thanked me for the lovely song, there was quite a long silence as she looked at me expectantly, finally she asked if there was anything else that I wanted. Yes I said "could I have a quick look at your knickers", from this point on the proceedings took a nose dive I don't remember her screaming but I was told later that she had, and it could be heard all round the school. I ran out of the classroom, into the playground, and hid behind the dinner bins, I was still there when the other kids went back in, sure that I would be sent to prison for my crime. I stayed there crying until Mrs Meadows found me. But instead of the telling of that I thought I would receive for my terrible deed, she began to explain that there are certain ways to behave in front of ladies, and that what I had done wasn't so bad after all. She was a very kind woman with a very kind way about her, and I remember her for that.


Mr Winstanley My form teacher in primary school. A wonderful man who made you see everything as it was. There was no ambiguity with him, the only teacher I knew in any school I attended who could explain things in such a way that one instantly understood, no matter what the subject. He was also the teacher who directed, and produced the school plays that were performed twice a year, and I was in every one, I loved performing, and enjoyed my short-lived fame. Years later in a school play at secondary school I saw him in the front row watching his old student ham it up in a production of Beauty and the Beast. He clapped loudly at the end of each act, sadly I didn't get to talk to him, he left before we were out of costume. The strange part about this is that I found out he had died of cancer four months before that night.........I swear I saw him.

Mr Walmesley Chemistry and physics Secondary school. It was a joy to be in this mans presence, he bubbled with enthusiasm about everything scientific he was always making plans for the next lesson or devising a new way to explain a lesson, and he spoke to you as an equal, a very rare thing for teachers in the sixties. There is an old joke about the students blowing the lab up. With John Walmesley it was the other way round, rarely did an experiment go to plan, but because of this you remembered every second of every lesson he taught, and somehow he got the message across, a genuine eccentric.

Self Pity

Its not easy leading my kind of lifestyle, especially when one is as advanced in years as I am. Ok so I don't look my age (Only reason I get away with as much as I do) but I damn well feel it at times. Mentally I am as agile as a twenty five year old, the trouble is that physically I can't see me passing another M.O.T, I need an urgent service, you know the kind of thing, healthy eating habits, exercise, cutting out the booze and late nights.

The problem is I can't have that long left, maybe fifteen years, twenty if I'm lucky and I don't want to spend my last few years on an exercise bike, checking my blood sugar level, and keeping my cholesterol under 4.6. Since the wife left I have re discovered the joys of sex and being pissed, not both together of course, one negates the other, well it does at my age. But a couple of cheeky vimto's and a roll around the living room floor can do wonders for an old farts moral.

Since I embarked on this wayward life, I have been amazed at the number of younger women who prefer the company of an older man. I haven't really had to do any work, at virtually any social gathering I attend you can bet that there will be several young things who are impressed by my confident and worldly manner. They are won over by my aura of power, reassured by the feeling of safety that envelops them when in my company. Ok so I exaggerated a little but there must be some truth in there somewhere, analysing why women like what they like has never been easy for any man, but I persevere the rewards are great I know.

One of the downers about dating the younger woman is that their taste in music doesn't even come close to mine, I spend hours pretending to like the music they listen to, and if that isn't bad enough they expect me to dance to it, and I do. God knows what I must look like bouncing around like a Pratt, but they don't seem to mind, in fact they encourage and appreciate it. However whilst I'm doing my moves I am constantly aware that I can't be too energetic because some of the available battery power will be needed for the carnal athletics later on, if I'm lucky.

I suppose my behaviour is the last kick towards the shore of a drowning man, but if I'm going under then at least I will do so in the classic crawl style of Mark Spitz rather than the spluttering, floundering of someone out of their depth. Like my Father used to say "Always look like you know what you're doing even if you don't" and I do rather well at that I think.

Since my violent projection into the life of a single man, I have known nine women (Bible terminology). The oldest was thirty five, and the youngest twenty three, I am still on drinking terms with five of them, I assume I still have the option there, But in my present state of decay my downward spiral into ill health can only exelerate unless I act now, and arrest and reverse the demise of my failing flesh. I will keep you posted, but don't expect too much.

Pisspots, or a lesson in liquid

The Jerry,guzunder (as in guzunder the bed ) wee pot, or piss bucket as it was sometimes called in this neck of the woods is I am reliably informed making something of a comeback, its origins are lost in the mists of time, and there is no reliable date for the first one ever produced for the retail market,but be sure that long before the wheel was invented primitive man was lagging in a clay pot of some kind rather than foul up the cave,and incur the wrath of primitive woman.There is something very satisfying in filling up any receptical with urine,don't ask me why I don't know,but its a fact of life,or at least a fact of male life,I cant speak for the ladies but they do look very ungainly whilst straddling earthenware.For the man it is easier we have the equipment to hit any part of the interior of the vessel without spilling a drop,unless of course alcohol is the reason we are filling the pot in the first place,then another set of variables comes into play.The first one is the unwritten rule that you must look up at the ceiling,and sigh heavily whilst releaving yourself,....first obvious point, if you are looking up at the ceiling you cant see what's going on below your waistline, result wet carpet,....second point, if you sigh too loud it will drown out the sound of the said carpet getting soaked,and you will know nothing about it until its too late,either way you will be squelching back to bed.The game changes as you age the older you get the smaller your bladder becomes,until at the age of about forty its roughly the size of a malteaser unfortunately you still produce the same amount ( if not more ) of urine that you always have,only now its under a lot more pressure,add to that the cold,and your rapidly failing prostate its obvious that around Christmas time when more alcohol is drunk than at any other time of the year,the average middle aged man becomes a walking time bomb.It could be very nasty for anyone in the vicinity when one of these chaps goes off,so what are the signs to look out for.Tip No1 if our hero is stood at the bar looking strained,and pale then he is trying to hold it in as long as he can because with already ten trips to the toilet under his belt ( forgive the pun ) he will be conscious of people thinking he is suffering from the very thing he is suffering from.Tip No2 trying to look cool with a full bladder is impossible,so he will be shifting from one foot to another,and taking little sips of his beer instead of bloody great gulps which is what real men do.Tip No3 his power of concentration will be shot to pieces therefore instead of listening to what people are saying to him he will nod his head a lot say yes or no now and again,and make furtive glances in the direction of the urinal to make sure its still there.Tip No4 if you are with a particularly tight fisted specimen,and he doesn't argue as he normally would when you tell him its his round but he shoves the money into your hand,and tells you to get them in, then its a sure sign that he is about to explode,take cover or you will become another victim.Getting back to Jerrys though the inside toilet brought about the demise of the poe,they were no longer needed because the W.C.was but a few steps away from the bedroom. This meant that thousands of piss pot makers were thrown out of work,within a few years towns,and communities that depended on the Jerry were reduced to making the odd ashtray or flower pot that were themselves being replaced by glass,and plastic. The old guzunder was going under,and its now very rare to see a fine example of the humble piss bucket unless some arty farty hippie buy's one on a flea market,and plants a palm in it.Still the poe is making a comeback,and I for one am glad there is something about the ring of an earthenware being topped up,that fills me with nostalgia,a longing for the days when if you couldn't get to sleep as a kid the poe gave you an excuse to get out of bed, and make a bit of noise legitimately,I hope the poe does well but somehow I can't see it.