Dicks and Dumptrucks

Speaking on the phone is a big part of my day and one of the people that I speak to on a fairly regular basis is the secretary for a large corporate events company, she sounds bubbly, blonde, and flirty. If I had to guess I would say she was in her late twenties, early thirties, but I'm not even going to try because the last time I fell for the voice on the phone I drew the short straw.

She too was a secretary and worked for a friend of mine, a private detective called Jerry. I used to make bugs (electronic listening devices) for him among other things, which when ready he would come to my shop to collect. I had been speaking to his secretary Sarah for over a year but had never met her, we became very friendly and our conversations became more risqué and suggestive to the point where I just had to do something about it or look a fool.
One Friday afternoon driven by lust I shut the shop early and made my way across town to Jerry’s office. It took some finding tucked away in a dingy side street and to be honest it was little more than a big cupboard stuck between lots of other big cupboards. But eventually I found a door with the words G. Davies, private investigator stencilled on it, just like in the Mickey Spillane novels. I was impressed.

I had always imagined that Jerry's secretary would be a long legged, stocking clad, crimson lipped, blonde, Veronica Lake type lady oozing sex and desperate for a man. I knocked on the door and waited. The door opened and there stood a short legged, shell suit clad, curly haired, three hundred pound, dump truck, definitely oozing, and without a doubt desperate for sex.
Her eyes travelled from my feet to my head, lingering for a while around my crotch, before saying in a voice that I knew well, "What can I do for you". Faced with this my nerve left me, I stuttered, "Oh I'm just dropping these of for Jerry, could you give them to him please" I pushed the small parcel towards her. “Are you David from Visual Electronics” she said, not waiting for an answer she grabbed my arm and pulled me inside. “Jerry won’t be long, come in and wait” she motioned me to sit down on an old leather couch, “would you like a drink” I sat on a high back chair near the door, “I really don’t have the time,” I said falteringly. She hauled her huge bulk over to a filing cabinet in the corner of the room and looked over her shoulder at me, “Oh come on, there is always time for a drink” her face cracked into what might have been a smile and she winked knowingly. “Coffee” I said, my voice sounded very week and thin.

She threw her head back and laughed, “it will have to be either lager or Guinness, the boilers on the blink”. It was then that I noticed the bald spot on the back of her head. “Not for me, I said, I have to drive back”. She poured herself a drink and perched her fat arse on the edge of a very wobbly desk, she attempted to cross her legs but only managed to spill some of the drink down her shell suit top, which was already covered in what looked like ink, and gravy. “Jerry has told me all about you, he said your one of the hardest men he knows” she let her tongue touch her bottom lip. I wasn’t sure if this was an attempt at being provocative, or that she was just mopping the Lager froth away. “I like hard men” She said breathlessly. Just then the door opened and in walked Jerry, he seemed surprised but glad to see me. I told him the reason for my visit and we chatted for a while before I made my exit. As I hurried down the corridor I promised myself I would never fall for a voice on the phone again, and touch wood so far I haven’t.

Jerry was an intelligent, but very unlucky guy; he invented a security vetting system that was stolen from him by a Magistrate who was supposed to be providing the finance for the venture. Another time he found a loophole in the international law governing the embargo on Cuba, but the villains who were helping him put his plan into action disappeared with over a million pounds and he was left with nothing.

The last time I saw Jerry was on a Thursday night, he called at my house to drop off a couple of security devices he wanted me to repair. He arranged to pick them up on the Monday, when he left he seemed happy enough and was excited about a new contract he had acquired with a fairly big company in Manchester. So it was with surprise and sadness that I learned he had driven up to Blackpool on the Friday night to a caravan he kept there and committed suicide. He was found with his feet in a bowl of water and an electric flex jammed in his mouth. There was no sign of the gold jewellery he always wore even to bed. Poor Jerry, unlucky in death too.

Kirsty Young

What can I say about this lady? ...I Know...Phwaaaaaaaaawwww.

All this and his wig is wearing out too

Michael came over to my house last night, he usually visits on a Friday night for a couple of hours. He was in a great deal of pain with his leg, two years ago he had a new knee joint fitted, which has never healed. He suffered a stroke in his teens, which left him partially paralyzed down his right side, so he limped and his left leg was subjected to more wear and tear as a result. Over the years his knee joint wore out and though it was uncomfortable for him to walk he managed quite well. He was persuaded by his doctor to have the operation that (as he put it) would change his life.

The surgeon performing the operation informed Mike that millions of people have this operation every year, and within days are out of hospital and gadding about like young colts. I remember telling mike some scary stories I had heard about unfortunates who had undergone this type of surgery and most definitely hadn't been able to gad about like young colts, in fact one or two of them couldn't gad at all.

Despite all this Mike went ahead, on the day of his surgery eight other people had the same operation, and all of them went home under their own steam after three days. All but mike who stayed in hospital for over two weeks, he spent a further four month housebound and tied to a chair because he couldn't even put his foot on the floor without suffering excruciating pain. His left leg, which once was a mirror image of his right leg, had swollen to the size of a football, and looked very angry. It could not be bent at the knee, nor could it be touched and his foot was beginning to swell too.

Mike protested to whoever would listen, his doctor, his physio nurse (who insisted on trying to bend the unbendable) and the surgeon who performed the operation, and they all told him that his leg was fine. He was sent to another specialist to see what could be done, and over the weekend he had in his possession the x-rays of his knee, he brought them round and when I looked I couldn't believe what I saw. Now I have no medical training, but even I know that a knee joint shouldn't look like the hinge of a door, I'm not kidding, at first I thought it was a wind up, but this is seriously deadly stuff.

He is told that the operation went well, yet he was in hospital far longer than he should have been. He spent months unable to walk or bend his knee, and he is told that this is normal, despite originally being told that he would be up and about in days. He has suffered two years of pain from a swollen knee that looks as angry as the day it was cut. And now he is being asked to undergo another operation so that they can find out what is wrong with a knee that they still insist hasn't anything wrong with it.

In the meantime poor old Mike continues to drag himself and his leg to my house on Friday nights just to get out of the house I think, and where once he limped on one leg, he now limps on two, not an easy thing to do. I watch him shuffling slowly up my garden path and even the slugs and snails beep their horns at him to get out of the way.

On beating Bullies

It’s unlike me, but I was in a bad mood this morning for no apparent reason burnt the toast, put too much sugar in my coffee, the milk was off. Then as I started to reverse out of my drive, a Waterboard van pulled up in front of it and blocked my exit. I threw the car door open and got out to blast the idiot who had clearly seen that I was about to leave.

It turned out to be my old mate from school days, Don, good old Don. We first met when at the age of nine; we started at a new junior school on the same day. Both a little nervous we were watching the other kids in the playground but not really getting involved, when Toffee Holland the school bully came over to where we were standing and launched into his bully act. He started on Don first, because he wore special boots and they stood out. I didn’t know it at the time but Don was fearless, and his reluctance to stand up for himself was due to the fact that he had been transferred to this new school because of his habit of scrapping with anyone who looked at him side ways. He was under orders to behave himself or face the risk of being sent to an approved school. I on the other hand wasn’t, and although not fearless like my chum to be, had an inherent streak of honour and sense of fair play that prevented me from standing by and watching someone being bullied. Very laudable you might think but to be honest very stupid. Toffee Holland like all bullies was a big lad for his age. But as my Dad always told me bullies only bully people whom they think wont fight back, (lets face it there is no fun in hitting someone who will give as good as he gets) and if you stand up to them, they will always back down.

I stood tall, five foot one tall actually at that time, and announced to Toffee and his entourage that if they didn’t leave Don alone they would have me to answer to. Toffee seemed quite happy with this and advanced toward me with a menacing look. I could hear my Fathers voice in my mind, "Hit him before he hits you" there was also another voice in there rather weaker than my Fathers, and as it happened making much more sense, "run away you are going to die, run away". For some reason I listened to the former and launched myself at this mountain of a kid

Within seconds I had reduced his fist to a bloody mess with the skilful use of my face and body, and all at the speed of light. He didn’t see it coming, and if it hadn’t been for the school bell sounding end of playtime he would have had even more of my blood on his clothes. That was the end of this altercation, he ran off to class and I crawled around the school yard looking for my teeth. This was the first time Toffee and I met on the field of battle, there was to be another meeting some years later with an altogether different outcome.

Don and I became firm friends after that, and always looked out for each other, although he did rather more looking than I. He took several beatings over the years to save my skin, where as I had learned my lesson and was a little more conservative with my mouth. Next to my Father he is probably the most honourable man I know, and still will not under any circumstances back down from anyone. For years we lived in each others pockets, even when we were both married, but the last ten years or so we see each other rarely, maybe three or four times a year. Memorable occasions were the swapping of false teeth after a night he spent with an old tug, and the time he almost burnt the house down with a sausage, which I managed to get on video.

So it was a joy to see that it was he who blocked my exit this morning. We went back into the house and talked about old times over a cup of coffee, he now worked for the water board, visiting houses in the Manchester area testing the tap water. This job is easy peasy he told me, twenty-five grand a year, company van and I don’t have to knock myself out. I'm glad he is happy, his life hasn’t always run as smoothly as it does now, over the years he has had a lot of sadness, but he faced it, as he always does, without fear.

Nellie and the thugs

Old Nellie stopped me in the street the other day and shoved an evil looking greasy brown bag into my hand, "there you are Barry, I’ve been saving that for you" she yelled at me. She is as deaf as a post poor old stick, the kids around here say its because an earwig crawled into her ear and laid eggs, but I suspect its from years of using a pneumatic drill when she worked for the gas board laying mains.

Why she insists on calling me Barry I don’t know, I stopped trying to put her right about my name when I realised she couldn’t hear a word I said and all it got me was a sore throat. The greasy brown bag contained half eaten sandwiches, I couldn’t make out what was on them, but whatever they had contained was several days old and was moving.

Legend has it that some years ago a couple of the local thugs decided to rob the old dear’s house. They broke in early morning when they thought she would be asleep, but as everyone who isn’t a thug knows, old people don’t need a lot of sleep, so they stay up all night polishing their collection of old toasters or rearranging piles of newspapers tied with string.

In any case she was awake and heard them breaking into the kitchen. A neabour who saw what was going on phoned the police, which is just as well because no sooner had the thugs set foot in her kitchen than Nellie set about them with her two walking sticks. I mean she really kicked the shit out of them, I wished I could have seen that. The thugs were arrested in the nick of time and were I am told in something of a state by the time the old dear had finished with them. There was some talk of her being charged with assault, but it was never going to happen was it, I mean come on, you just want to shout “Go Nellie Go”.

Fat Harry and the crapper

I don't know about you but I miss the old two up, two down crumbling, rat and cockroach infested houses of my early years. They had far more character than the boring open plan boxes that are being built these days. At least you could get your furniture through the front door in the slum type accommodation, I think that's why flat pack was invented, its the only way you can get anything inside these Lego boxes. They are far too neat for my taste. I prefer the chaos and decay of the back to back terraced, where you were always finding things and loosing things, although if you found anything it was usually in your bed, and when you lost something it was probably through a gap in the floorboards.

I have fond memories of the stone floor in the kitchen, the old brown sink with it's big brass tap, and the outside crapper with no roof. It had no roof because one night years ago fat Harry who always wore overalls, goloshas full of holes, and walked with a limp volunteered to keep watch on our bonfire wood, which was stored on top of the coal hole. In those days there was fierce competition between neighbouring streets as to who would have the biggest bonfire, and theft was not an uncommon occurrence.

So fat Harry who must have weighed over a hundred stone stood vigil on top of the crapper roof, where he had a good view of all the wood. My mum kept him supplied with cups of tea and cake, and an old coat to keep him warm, but I think the cake and the coat combined must have been the straw that broke the camels back. Or in this case the crapper roof because just before the little white dot that signaled the end of TV for the night, there was an almighty crash, we all ran outside to see fat Harry the coat and the roof scattered around the back yard.

My dad stepped over the stricken Harry to inspect his beloved toilet, which thankfully apart from being covered in roof dust was unscathed, which is more than can be said for Harry who had among other injuries a broken arm and a lump the size of Glasgow on his head. Still the wood was safe and that was all that mattered to my brother and I, kids can be really mean can't they and the fact that we were more concerned about our bonfire wood than poor old fat Harry who we never gave a thought to proves that. I say never gave a thought to, but in fact we did, the whole family did, every time we had to use the loo, especially when it was pissing down. Still it was nice to watch the stars while you sat there, I used to lean back against the old lead pipe and wonder at the night sky, Its majesty kind of made up for the fact that I had to wipe my arse on the Manchester evening news.

P of the Pop

I took the girls shopping this morning; I always look forward to this every two weeks. It gives me a chance to spend three hours or more sitting in the car waiting for them whilst I listen to yet more repeats on radio four, (it should be called radio Deja vu) or worse being dragged up and down endless isles full of overpriced tasteless junk.

I suppose that if I didn't do this I would only waste my time doing something useful like earning money, or watching the blonde across the road from me struggling with her petrol lawn mower. I’m not sure why she persists with it; she can never get it going. She once asked for my help after a particularly angry exchange that she had with it one Sunday. I didn’t really want to stick my beak in, but she became quite loud, "eighty bleedin quid this cost and it don’t bleedin work" blonde, yes......refined, no. I gave it the once over, "how long have you had it” I asked, "brand new a couple of month ago, never bleedin worked" she replied "I only bought it cos you don’t have to plug it in". I tried to start it, nothing, " I undid the fuel cap and peered inside the tank, "it’s got no petrol in it" I told her. She didn’t say anything else; she just wheeled it violently back into the house muttering about her eighty quid.

I digress, on our shopping trip we pass the city stadium and of course the B of the Bang sculpture designed by Thomas Heatherwick, paid for by us daft buggers. The sculpture consists of 180 hollow spikes radiating out of a central core. The middle bit was constructed in Sheffield before being hauled over the Pennines. Five of these spikes are anchored to the floor and provide support for the rest of the structure. The sculpture leans at an angle of 30 degrees.

Some of this monstrosity actually hangs over the road that passes by it, and given that since it was first erected several spikes have fallen of through poor welding, and there has been quite a lot of repair work since, can we trust it to stay where it is? Call me a worrier but whatever the tonnage is of that thing, I’m sure those flimsy looking rusty anchor spikes aren’t strong enough to keep it where it is. Its never been painted, so it can only rust more, if there is even a slight breeze it wags from side to side, and the most telling thing is that the construction paraphernalia hasn’t yet been taken away, they obviously know something we don’t. If any more spikes go missing I think it should be renamed P of the Pop.

Bugs in the car

I am a careful driver, at least I try to be, so I always stick to the speed limit, keep my eyes peeled for anything that might hinder my progress and where possible do my best to anticipate the actions of other road users and pedestrians. That apparently isn't enough. As I approached a road junction the other day, I started to brake well in advance, my foot went to the floor but the car didn’t slow down. At the same time a women emerged at speed from a side street oblivious to traffic, she looked in my direction and scowled but kept going, I did the only thing I could, I applied the hand brake and the car stalled to a stop. Now I maintain my car on a regular basis, I am lucky in that we have a fully equipped garage at work and two mechanics on hand to right any wrongs there might be on the company vehicles, So I know that my brakes failing wasn't down to neglect. The car was picked up and brought to the garage where it was discovered that the front brake pipe had been partially chewed through, eventually the pressure in the brake line was enough to rupture the pipe and I lost brake fluid rendering the brakes useless.

The culprit turned out to be next door but one's rabbit. The animal is allowed to roam about at will, as were its two friends, one of which died of a heart attack on my garden path when next doors dog tried to get at it. The other was torn to pieces when next doors dog actually did get at it. This had not however deterred the owner who believes that rabbits should not be denied their natural right of freedom to graze on any patch off green they wish. I had been aware that the rabbits used the underneath of my car to hide from dogs and kids, and most weekends my front garden was usually full of local children with handfuls of grass trying to tempt the rabbit out. This was annoying enough and I did complain to rabbit woman, but my complaints went unheeded, even when I reminded her that it was her liberal ideas on rabbit husbandry that had caused the death of two of her charges.

I am not an animal lover, but I would never hurt one, still the brake incident was serious, so I went round to rabbit woman’s house and informed her of my near miss. "So, what do you want me to do" she said, I managed to contain my anger, but told her through gritted teeth that if I found the rabbit under my car again, I would box it up, take it to the RSPCA and tell them It had been found wondering. As she closed the door she hissed "whatever" I lifted the letterbox and added "And report you"

Sunday morning as I made my first coffee of the day, I heard a commotion outside, apparently a group of kids had been chasing after the rabbit which ran across the road to escape them just as a car rounded the bend. The car wasn’t travelling very fast, but fast enough not to be able to stop in time. The result was that rabbit number three bought the farm and a little girl who ran into the road after it was slightly hurt. The driver was visibly shaken as was the little girl, but none of them had come off as worse as the rabbit. Eventually the little girl, who was by now crying uncontrollably, was taken home by one of the local mums. The car and driver went on their way, and the rest of the mob was left to argue about who would scrape the rabbit up and give it a decent burial, put it in the bin whatever.

I went back to my Sunday morning coffee safe in the knowledge that my car was no longer in danger of being eaten. I had barely enough time to finish my drink when there was yet another commotion from outside. I popped my head out of the front door to see several members of the little girl’s family brandishing pitchforks and firebrands converging on rabbit woman’s house. Ok so I exaggerated that bit, but it did put me in mind of the old Frankenstein films where the villagers form a mob and march to the castle gates intent on the monster's demise. I retreated into the house at that point; I had seen enough blood for one day.

The Ardwick Rocket

Every morning on my way in to desolation row I turn off the main road onto a steep hill that leads me over a railway crossing down a twisting lane to Clayton Vale Valley. This little patch of green in the murky grey city that I live and work in is a Mecca for naturalists and old farts who are nearing the end of their lives, but insist on becoming at one with nature. How they can put up with the stench of cow dung that permeates the place I cannot imagine. But they do, so many come now that its getting harder to avoid knocking them down, they are a menace always looking up at the tree tops, or down at the fauna and never in the direction they are walking. I could take another rout but then I would miss passing the Grey Mare pub that I once took Maddy to for a meal, its become a ritual now that makes me feel a little closer to her. Though I could never imagine telling her that the smell of cow shit reminds me of that day we spent together.

This morning as I drove across the little bridge that spans the river Medlock in the valley the smell wasn't as bad as it usually is, so I stopped near the tourist information centre. This is basically a few bits of wood that have been nailed together and painted green. I got out of the car to have a look around. As I crossed the road a motorbike came screaming down the hill and narrowly missed me, he wobbled a bit but he carried on the bastard, I gave him the finger and got back into the car.Its funny how everything in this world connects one way or another, the mornings episode had triggered memories from forty years before, when I worked with a chap called Dennis who loved motorbikes. The first motorbike I had I bought from him, it was a 125 cc Excelsior, with three gears and a seat that looked like it belonged on a penny-farthing. But it was mine and even if it didn’t go very fast, it sure felt like it did. It had maroon and gold livery and a speedometer that proudly announced a top speed of seventy miles an hour. I took that speedometer at face value and tried everything I could to get it to go that fast, but my efforts were in vain. Until I had the bright idea of turning the piston barrel around 180 degrees so that the carburettor was at the front with a big air scoop, and the exhaust was at the back and ran under the seat.

At the time I worked for a company based in a mill on Palmeston Street in Ardwick. The mill overlooked the river Medlock and every morning before the eight o clock hooter went of signalling the start of work, people would hang out of the windows that backed on to the river chatting and drinking tea. On my way to work one morning I decided to see what this baby could do. As I came down Pin mill brow I opened up the throttle and settled into the racing position oblivious to the fact that because the exhaust pipe had been modified it ran too close to the fuel pipe feeding the carb.

The fuel pipe melted and spewed petrol all over my pants and jacket, which was then ignited from the hot exhaust pipe and I became a ball of fire travelling at very high speed, well high-ish. I turned into Palmeston Street, and made straight for the mill gates. I didn’t have much road left, so I did the only thing I could, I skidded into the mill yard scattering people in all directions and made a beeline for the narrow ally at the side the mill which led onto the river.

I hit the sandbank, the front wheel dug in and I was catapulted through the air still burning into the river. I rolled around for a while to make sure the flames were out, then stood up and took off my crash helmet, to be greeted by thunderous applause from the workers hanging out of the mill windows. The bike was a write off; so I left it where it lay, over time it sank into the sandbank and became a nesting place for rats.

Later on that year Manchester suffered one of its worse downpours for a century, the river Medlock swelled its banks, Daisy Nook was flooded and enormous damage was done along its length. I remember hanging out of one of the windows watching the river rise higher and higher until it became too dangerous to stay in the building. The rivers power was enormous, as it crashed past the mill, it brought all kinds of things with it, furniture, a car, wooden fences dogs, cats and a cow, dead of course. For years I wondered where the cow could have come from. I found out years later that it had been swept into the river from a farm somewhere in Clayton Vale, although it wasn’t called that in those days.

On the day that Maddy and I ate our Sunday dinner in the Grey Mare, we drove around the nicer parts of Manchester, I was determined to show her that where I lived wasn’t all run down houses and shuttered shops. I took her to Daisy Nook a pleasant little village not far from Clayton Vale. She was delighted by its quaint tidiness and neat gardens, she told me that she would love to live there, really I said, Sure she replied, who wouldn’t want to live in a place where ya don’t have to get out of the car to knock on someone’s door. It always makes me smile when I think of that.

Maddy

I have always known that life is unfair, that’s the way it is and always will be. But just how unfair it can be was brought home to me several years ago when I met someone whom I know I should have spent my life with. Quite a profound statement but you just know when its right, and it would have been so right with this lady who I call Maddy.
Unfortunately she is married with children and lives three and a half thousand miles away. We have met several times in this country and in hers, they were both the happiest and saddest times of my life.

Happy because she gave me something no other woman ever has or could, and sad because at the end of every visit there is a farewell. Its been hard for me because I know nothing can ever come of the relationship, at least it can't go the way I would want it to, even though sometimes I kid myself that there is just a glimmer of hope.

But if I got what I wanted, other people would be hurt, and that’s not good. So I sit here and mope, miserable little bleeder that I am.

the funny one

the funny one

I can see clearly now, sort of

I may have solved my myopic problem, at least temporarily, I found a pair of glasses at work they look quite cool to. Gold frames, not too heavy, they give me a distinguished look. I tried them on but they just made things worse, it was obvious that whoever had owned these specs had the same problem I had but the other way round.

My right eye is worse than my left, his left eye must have been worse than his right. I know this because I put them on upside down and hey presto I could see again, that’s a slight exaggeration, I'm not blind, I just have trouble reading and when using the computer, probably through years of reading and using the computer.

The only major problem, apart from looking like a dick is that they keep falling off, unless I keep my head perfectly straight, which of course I cant do whilst I'm working because of having to look up at my PC screen and down at what’s on my desk. So I taped an elastic band to the arms and this keeps them on my head.

The upshot of this is that I now have a rather nasty red mark on the bridge of my nose which is irritating, still its a small price to pay and this illuminating exercise has reaffirmed my intention to visit the opticians as soon as possible. Meanwhile I have been getting some very odd looks from my colleagues.

Hot Tuna surprise

There was a time when I thought the only two things you needed to know about food to be an expert was, whether or not you needed a spoon or a fork to eat, and which hole to force it into.

Times have changed since my debut as a bachelor, these days I am something of a connoisseur of good grub, and I have come on leaps and bounds in the kitchen. I can cook a wide range of things both mundane and exotic. However I'm not a measurer of ingredients, no time for that when living life in the fast lane. I prefer to experiment, some times it works, some times it doesn't. Most of the time it works, but if it doesn't there is always the bin.

One of my concoctions that has been a resounding success is "Hot Tuna Surprise" despite the fact that it resembles dog vomit when cooked it is I can assure you delicious.

A close friend had dinner at my house a while ago and I tried it out on him. The first few mouthfuls went down ok, but then the chilli started to kick in. "What do you think" I asked him. He looked at me through stained glass eyes, tears running down his cheeks and snot dribbling from his nose, "its very nice" he said in the kind of voice someone in an iron lung who had just had the plug pulled would use. The poor bugger ate as much as he could, but in the end it got the better of him, perhaps I used too much chilli. So here it is, try it.

Ingredients: Tin tuna in oil, tin chopped tomatoes, one large onion, salt and chilli to taste. Fry the chopped union in the tuna oil, add the tuna, then the chopped tomatoes, add your chilli.

It’s at this point that it looks like dog vomit, but fear not, resist the temptation to barf. Serve on a bed of rice, or chips if you’re common, I always have a side salad with it, it looks posh and helps temper the volcano that erupts in your mouth. Please let me know what you think if you can still speak.

Tog's and Trumpets

I went to my local shopping centre yesterday, its like Manchester Arndale but without the parking problems and much smaller. It has everything you need which is good for me because I hate Manchester town centre with a vengeance. My original intent was to get my eyes tested but try as I might I couldn’t find the opticians. That’s the one drawback with the mini Arndale. They are always moving the shops around, I think the guy that runs it must be an ex supermarket manager, you just get used to the shops being in a certain place and he changes the landscape to the point where you need a new map. I couldn’t have read it anyway; I need my eyes testing.

So I decided to treat myself to a couple of new shirts and anything else that caught my eye, my good one that is. I always shop for my clothes at the same place, unless I am abroad where everything is so cheap I buy six of everything. I have been going to this establishment for years, actually I think that it’s the only shop that hasn’t been moved by the mad supermarket manager. They know me and give great service despite being a little pricey. The manageress is about thirty-five, which is getting on for my cut off point age wise, so her shelf life is limited, but she is an extremely beautiful woman and has a very pleasant manner which is just borderline flirtatious.

However she does have an enormous bottom, its not just big its huge, its a wonder to me how she carries it around, in every other respect she is perfectly proportioned, there was definitely a cock up in the administration department when the trumpets were being handed out. But credit where its due, she has the most wonderful smile and when Im not looking at her bum, which I definitely don’t need glasses for, I am looking at her pearly white teeth framed by soft scarlet lips.
I suppose you think I'm superficial but one has to be realistic where affairs of the arse, sorry heart are concerned and as I mentioned in an earlier post, I'm not getting any younger.

I spent a good deal more than I had intended to, but they had a sale on and I took advantage of it. So much so that when the time came to pay she asked me if I was going anywhere special, I replied in the negative and put on my sad face, "haven’t been out for ages I lied" me too, she said, I could do with a good night out. Oh well if I decide to try my new togs out this weekend I’ll give you a ring I joked, Really she smiled, well it will have to be Saturday night, I work during the day.

I was gob smacked. I never intended this, I was just joking, it was a friendly quip. So now I have a date that I don't really want, her face is saying go for it, but her arse is saying whoa there I’ll never fit in the car. I felt really bad about all this until last night, when I watched a film that changed my mind, its called Shallow Hal with Jack Black. Its a very funny film with a very direct and meaningful message, anyway I changed my mind, I thought why not, most men would climb a mountain for that smile, come to think of it I may well have to.

Jus fink before yer speek

Have you noticed how many people are starting a statement with "I mean" these days, surely this expression should only be used to further elaborate on something said previously, or as a precursor to an analogy. But more and more people, especially in the media are insulting us with their bad grammar, even politicians fall victim to this nonsense and they should I hope know better. I expect it from some streetwise teenager with nothing better to do than insult his/her eardrums with Mother F....r rap, but not someone with a university education.

I cant say that my grammar is impeccable, but I at least know the basics, and if I don’t know I take the trouble to find out. I answered the phone the other day to be greeted with "Av yer got a job" I replied "yes thank you " and put the phone down. The person rang back and said "I want a job mate who do I speak to" I informed the plum that unless he introduced himself properly and spoke the Queens English that he was unlikely to get a job here or anywhere else for that matter.

His answer wasn't unexpected; it contained an expletive and ended with off. You might think me a crusty old bugger and perhaps I am. But there is a growing assault on basic English in this country that isn't just coming from the Politically correct loons but is also prevalent in some of the guardians of our youth (Teachers) not all of course but certainly some of them. I had occasion to visit my daughter’s school some time ago after she brought home a note from her English teacher, who was also her form teacher. It read like this.

I need an explanation about why Faye wasn't in on wensday.

I went to the school the very next day and took the note with me. As I walked down the main corridor not sure where it was I was going, I came across a surly looking youth with spiky hair and earrings. He was dressed not unlike a Benidorm holidaymaker he shouted at three younger kids who were running I presume late for class and I quote "don't f.....g run in the corridor" I said excuse me, he replied "what can I do you for mate" I replied I am looking for Mr xxxxxx he smiled happily That would be me. I turned on my heel and walked out determined to move my Daughter to another school. As I put as much distance between this moron and myself he shouted after me "nice one" another expression I hate.

Gin vs Vodka

Friends have often asked me how I coped when the ex wife left me, I have to ask them which time they are talking about, she left a total of fourteen times. But always came back except for the last time of course which was on Christmas eve 1999.

My answer is "spent Christmas alone" this always gets me some sympathy. I remember waking up Christmas morning and thinking that's it, never again, partly because I had done some serious damage to a bottle of Gin the night before and partly because I was determined not to have her back again. It was over, finished, done with, Kaput, an ex relationship; I was determined but miserable.

Not because I had lost the love of my life, but because she had taken my jewellery and what money I hadn't already spent on her presents with her. It was a lonely next few days I spent with just my thoughts, a large bottle of vodka (I had given up the gin remember) and a bleeding great turkey I couldn't possibly eat alone, although I did tackle the bits that weren't burnt.

The night before new years eve, there was a knock on my door, I opened it to find Kerry standing there with a sweet smile on her face, come on she said, you can come to my house and help me get things ready for the party tomorrow night. How could I refuse, it was a chance to get out of the house, have a few drinks and a laugh, Kerry always made me laugh.

Despite the difference in our ages we were alike, we listened to the same music, liked to party and always told each other the truth, we were good friends. New years eve was spent rolling around on the living room floor and enjoying a cheeky little vodka that claimed to be of Baltic origin. We saw a lot of each other after that.

In fact I spent the summer of 2000 with Kerry in my back garden which is a sun trap, trapping sun and drinking bottles of wicked, until we realised that it was cheaper to buy the vodka and Iron bru separately and make it ourselves. Always free agents our new relationship was and never is talked about, a sort of communal denial. Still it works despite her finding a partner and having a child.

The golf ball affair

I saw Marcus today; his friend was helping him out of his dad's car. He looked remarkably well for someone who had been tuned up by a golf ball on a chain, he was unsteady on his feet and his hands were shaking a little but he was home and could begin the long road to recovery.

Quite how long that road would be I couldn't have imagined until I saw the side of his face that had been hidden from me as he got out of the car. There were multiple lacerations that contained more stitches than a New England bed quilt, and the bone structure had been extensively rearranged. Of course it's too early to tell if there will be lasting physical damage, but I'm sure this episode will scar him for years to come, he is after all a sensitive chap.

His friend who has obviously been upset by all this swears revenge, and keeps insisting that Marcus should let him take care of the retribution side of things, as he knows some people. Marcus just want's to forget it and get on with his thing, no point in complicating an already serious situation. Just forget it, he kept mumbling through swollen lips. I'll keep you posted.

How the mighty fall.

I don't often see old classmates, or the friends I grew up with, but when I do I am always a little shocked at how they look, half of them are dead now, and those that aren't look as if they should be. I don't mean to be unkind but one or two of them really do look like they have been dragged through the mill. We all get old but some of them are taking it to extreme lengths.

Recently I took a walk through the park I used to play in as a kid, a kind of trip down memory lane, I sat on the bench that used to be a meeting place for our little gang and reflected on times gone by. As I enjoyed the warm sun and the sound of the brook as it wound its way through what once was a battlefield centuries ago. Gore Brook
I heard a moan, then another louder this time, then a barrage of swear words, followed by a low whimpering.

The noise was coming from what looked like a bundle of rags some way up the hill. I decided to investigate, I thought it might be someone in need of help, a mugging victim perhaps. It turned out to be Steve a chap I went to school with, he used to be a great sportsman and favorite of the girls with his wavy blonde hair and sky blue eyes, and was what I believe the Americans term as the most likely to succeed.
The guy was in a terrible state, his hair was long and matted, his face bore the marks of violence and a million drunken nights, he was disheveled and dirty, and he smelled to high heaven.

The ground around him was littered with empty cider bottles. He held two full ones close to his chest obviously scared I would steal them from him, he kept telling me to find my own and go away. I tried to tell him who I was and that I meant him no harm, but he didn't recognise me, he just kept shouting and edging away with a death like grip on his cider. I decided to retreat and leave him to it, before I did I threw two ten pound notes next to him, he snatched them up almost before they hit the ground, then his face broke into what I thought was a smile, but he was just baring his brown teeth to spit at me.

I left him alone and walked across the little bridge over the brook and up the hill on the other side, as I reached the top I stopped and looked across the park at my old school friend who had shown so much promise as a young man, and wondered how he could have sunk so low. He was urinating in the brook, taking a swig from his cider bottle and doing a little dance all at the same time. I walked through the old park gates and made a mental note to cross him off my dinner party list.

mister pissed

mister pissed

I pissed my sides laughing at this, angry and abrupt but so true.

Poor old Joe

I had some bad news last night, My old pal Joe Gittle passed away, his mum phoned me with the news. It was totally unexpected. She went into his room yesterday morning to wake him but he was gone. He was just ninety-four, no age at all, when things like this happen we all become aware of our mortality. Joe was a get up and go kind of guy who had a zest for life, but yesterday poor old Joe couldn't get up, couldn't do anything, he was as cold as a witches tit. His Mum spent the morning phoning friends and family with the news, everyone took it badly, his older brother Gary is away on a climbing holiday in the Pyrenees Mountains and doesn’t know yet.

He and Joe were planning a trip to the USA later this year, Las Vegas I believe, he liked a good time did Joe, always the life and soul of the party. He lived hard and he played hard, having said that he was a great family man, and he loved his wife, he loved all his wives.
He was a great father to his kids and he knew all forty-six of them by name. He once said to me that if he ever died, he would like his ashes scattered in Great Yarmouth, at the foot of Nelsons column, yes there is a Nelsons column in Great Yarmouth and it was erected before the one in London. I don't know if his mum knows this, I mean about his wishes not Nelson’s column. I will have to pick the right moment to tell her, wouldn't want to upset her any more than she already is.

I’m not sure how the land lies with Mandy Joe’s young wife, they separated a few weeks ago, apparently Joe needed some space, he needed time to find out who he was, he needed direction in his life. I suppose its something that happens to all of us at some time or other. With Joe it happened every ten years or so, oh well he was a complicated guy and who knows what goes on in a fellows mind.

I think I might just pop round to see Mandy, and offer my condolences, see if there is anything she needs, its the right thing to do, and Im sure Joe would approve. Another one bites the dust.

Straight from the horses arse.

I was reminded the other day of the lengths that men and women go to in order to impress the opposite sex. A young friend of mine asked my advice about how he could ingratiate himself with a girl he worked with. He has convinced himself that He is out of her league and will probably fail, but he is a game chap and is going to try anyway, I admire his pluck, she sounds like a bit of a snot to me, but hey ho,nothing ventured,nothing gained, feint heart, blah, blah, blah.

I advised him to be his self and not try to impress her in an unsustainable way, it can only lead to heartache and land you in a whole heap of shit, I know, this is my story.

I was seventeen, and incredibly stupid, my bosses daughter was beautiful and privileged, the last thing she needed was to be pursued by a working class lad like me, with no money, no prospects, and no job if my boss found out about what I was up to.

But like my young friend I couldn't be deterred from my mission, I discovered that she used to go horse riding on Saturday mornings with friends. So I decided to learn how to ride a horse and thought when reasonably competent I could accidentally bump into her whilst out cantering, having horses in common would help my case I reasoned.

So I joined the horsy club, and on Sunday mornings whenever my meager budget would allow I rode a very pleasant little horse called Millie, we got on fine and the more I rode her the more confident I became. I say rode but in fact we did little more than walk, but you know how it is after several lessons I was telling everyone that I had been born in the saddle.
I was becoming impatient and desperate to press my suit, so I decided to try my luck the next Saturday when I knew my target would be out riding with her friends.

Unfortunately I arrived late at the club that morning and my usual mount Millie had already been taken out. The stable girl explained that the only mount left was a rather spirited horse named Nelson, no problem I told her, I'm a seasoned rider.

Things went fine at first, we headed off up the lane at a steady walk, but I needed to catch up so I dug my heels in and made the lets go faster sound with my teeth. Now I swear I put the horse in second gear, but Nelson had other ideas, perhaps I dug my heels in a little too hard and he took exception to it, but he decided fifth gear was more appropriate and bolted.

I didn't realize horses could reach such speeds. We sped along the lane with me holding on for dear life, we approached a sharp bend in the lane and I thought we would make it, but the horse thought different and headed strait for a gate. As we neared the gate I actually considered jumping it, but in the event Nelson screeched to a halt sideways on and I jumped it alone.

I hit the top of the gate with the middle of my back, which had the effect of cartwheeling me over the gate into the mud, and cow shit on the other side. As I lay in this mixture of crap I watched the horse tootle of up the lane without me.
Things were not going too well, but they were going to get worse.

I ran after the horse and about half a mile up the lane I found him being comforted and calmed down by a young girl in overhauls, as I approached them she started telling me off for mistreating this poor animal,he was frightened and in a terrible state.
She seemed oblivious to my state, but ordered me to follow her to the farm, you will jolly well clean him up she said.

The farm was more a haven for broken down tractors and rusty agricultural machinery than anything else, but follow her I did and whilst making the horse good, I set about chatting her up.

The girl who's name I cant remember went inside to make us a cup of tea, and I settled myself down on a low square brick building that was topped by a rust encrusted steel sheet full of holes. She reappeared carrying two mugs of tea.

I wondered at how different she looked, my chat line must have worked, because she had changed into a very pretty white dress, and had rearranged her hair. This is the part in films where everything happens in slow motion, as she walked towards me I pushed the match I had just lit my cigarette with through one of the holes in the steel plate I was sat on. I heard a loud whoosh accompanied by a large ball of flame and for the second time that day I became airborne, I saw the horrified look on her face as I sailed past her and landed with a thud on my back. She stood there her white dress covered in human excrement.

It dripped from her face, it ran down her arms and legs, it filled the two mugs she was carrying. From far away I heard a scream that got louder and more penetrating. I had blown the farm's cesspit up, Instinctively I knew that the situation couldn't be saved, so I grabbed the horse by the reigns and made my escape. Needless to say I didn't go horse riding again.

After telling my young friend this sorry tale he looked at me for a while. His eyes glazed over, but I won't be taking her horse riding he said. I think stupidity must be a prerequisite of youth.

My lips are sealed

I've packed quite a lot into my young life. The last forty years or so have been eventful though not always happy, still I shouldn't complain, it wouldn't do me any good if I did and some of those years I couldn't complain about even if I wanted to, and I can't tell you why. The powers that be have for bade me to, well they did thirty years ago and the statute of limitations or whatever it is we have in this country hasn't run out yet.

I'm not even sure if it does run out; perhaps it lasts until you pop your clogs, in which case my lips are sealed forever. Ok I admit that when I have spent the night in the company of a lady whom I trust implicitly, I may have run my gob off, but the content of said gobbing off doesn't really make for relaxing mood inducing pillow talk. More often than not I was asked to change the subject, Some people just aren't impressed, so I suppose my secrets must die with me, they are not that important any more.

Far more exciting things are happening in the world nowadays, years ago there used to be a dramatic news item every few weeks, now we are faced with them every evening. Violence is a way of life, and we are becoming more used to it, the world's gone crazy people rant. Well let me tell you, the world has always been crazy, and if my lips weren't sealed, I could tell you why.

Horror Bag

Linda used to be pretty; she used to be a very nice girl until the drugs got hold of her. It started with the odd drag on a joint, then a little whiz when she was out clubbing.

It wasn't long before someone persuaded her to try Heroin, before long her husband left her, the children had been taken into care and the comings and goings from her house became legend. I don't think her husband leaving had that much impact on her, he was a weak man and couldn't or wouldn't help her, but when the social services came for the kids she was distraught. All the kind people around here said it was her own fault, they had very little sympathy for her and I suppose that's understandable, but I never forgot the kind of person she used to be, and because of that helped her whenever I could.

Mostly it was a case of just being a good neahbour, letting her use my garden shears or loaning her a paintbrush. But several nights ago she knocked on my door and asked If had some spare weed she could borrow, apparently she had friends round at the house and they were chilling out with a smoke, unfortunately they had run out of wacky baccy. Now I get the paintbrush, the shears, the odd cup of sugar, and even the loan of a couple of bob until weekend, but marijuana?

What on earth makes her think that a fifty-seven year old Gin drinking, lawn mowing, Rover driving old fart like me would have Marijuana. Sure I like a drink, several in fact, and I could even be called a party animal, but weed. I had to disappoint her, my stash was depleted as it was, the Congo green was little more than crumbs and I was saving the skunk for a special occasion.

I asked her about the drugs thing and she told me that she had over a period of time weaned herself of the heroin, back onto the whiz, and from there back into smoking weed, sort of reverse order of decline. Shouldn't be long before I'm just an alcoholic again she said cheerfully. I was impressed, not only was she getting her life back in order, all be it in reverse order, but unknowingly she had discovered a cure for drug addiction. She left to try Marcus further up the avenue, a nice chap who works hard and at the age of thirty three still lives with his dad, I think that might be down to the bright red hair and his preference for fun clothes.

I was informed yesterday that he had joined Linda and her friends for a drink and a quick puff. Later in the evening after copious amounts of booze and weed, one of Linda's guests took exception to something Marcus had said and set about him with a golf ball fastened to the end of a chain, that apparently he carried with him for just such an occasion. Poor Marcus lies in hospital his broken and swollen body as red as his hair, they must have given him a good smartening up for him to be admitted to hospital.

Linda won't be going to visit him, she doesn't like hospitals, and anyway he deserved what he got for being lippy to her friends she told me. At that moment I realized that she was never again going to be the person she used to be, that girl was gone forever, lost to whatever Shite she had put into her body.

The Names have been changed to protect the not so innocent.

Yes that is a wig

This chap is Michael, great bloke but he suffers from short-term memory loss, which complicates his life to the point of frustration, it doesn't do me a lot of good either because I have to repeat things for him. Not in normal conversation, he gets by with that, but he insists on using a computer, in fact he has two desktops and a laptop, none of which he can use for any length of time, because he forgets what it is he is doing.

The first time we met was when he came into a TV and video repair shop I had a while ago and asked for instructions on how to program his video, as he didn't have the user manual. It was obvious to me that it wasn't getting through to him, so I wrote the instructions down. He seemed happy enough with that and left to set about his video programming. An hour later he was back, asking the same questions he had asked when he walked in earlier.

I told him about the piece of paper he had in his coat pocket, and informed him in no uncertain terms that I had better things to do with my time than have the Mickey taken out of me. At which point he laughed like Basil Brush and explained his affliction. I didn't believe him and threw him out of the shop. Some time after that a I was talking to another shop owner on my row and he confirmed that Michael did indeed suffer memory problems as a result of a stroke he had suffered when only eighteen years old. I felt bad about my rudeness and went round to his house to apologise, where of course I ended up programming his video.

He is a firm friend now. He visits my house on Monday and Friday nights, bemoaning his enforced vegetarian diet, complaining about having to share his house with the thirty Cats that his wife thinks more of than him, and asking me yet again how to cut and past files on his computer, or perform various other basic PC related tasks.
But I don't mind, as I said he is a good bloke and his Basil Brush laugh is infectious. He will laugh at anything remotely funny, a comedian's dream, one or two like him in the audience and they wouldn't need a full house. I saw him last Friday and he told me that he had changed his will and was leaving it all to me. A little taken aback I said but Mike what about your wife, he looked me strait in the eye and said no problem, you can have her as well.

The herringbone coat

I had a rather vivid dream last night, or rather this morning; it woke me up an hour early. It wasn't a nightmare so much as a reminder of something that popped up occasionally during my childhood. The pattern herringbone, not often seen these days in fashion, but something that was very popular at the beginning of the last century (sounds weird saying that) it first popped when I was seven years old.

I was in need of an overcoat and as we were only recently of wartime rationing something that my Mother couldn't afford to buy me. My Grandmother set about unpicking an old coat of hers to make me one. I had several fittings, and when it was finished I hated it. It had mutton of lamb sleeves (very girlie) that resembled sailor's kit bags and two pleats in the back; it fastened with six buttons, no two of which matched. Wearing that coat rated alongside underpants that came below the hem of your normal pants (boys wore short pants in those days) threadbare vests and plimsolls with holes in them, very raggedy.

I put it on to leave the house for school but took it off again the moment I was out of sight of home and my Mother. Most days I was frozen, but that was infinitely better than wearing that coat and that in the days when people weren't worried about street cred.

The second pop of note happened when I stayed overnight at the house of my Mothers friend, I cant remember her name but I do remember that she was very glamorous, and had long red hair. In the morning I was up early, breakfasted and ready to leave, she however was still as they say preparing her toilet and requested that I keep her company whilst she dressed. I can still remember the tightness in my chest and the difficulty I had breathing as I watched her pulling on silk underwear, and smoothing out her seamed nylons over those rather long legs that try as I might I couldn't take my eyes off. I could have stayed in that moment forever, but sadly all good things come to an end. She picked out a herringbone two piece suit and squeezed herself into it and suddenly memories of my hated overcoat came flooding back, I quite like herringbone I thought.

The third pop came a good deal later when as a young adult I spent some three months or so stealing things rather than working for them, it was a short career but quite spectacular. I may tell you about it some day, but for now suffice it to say that its shortness was due to the fact that I wasn't very good at it. I spent some time in Borstal as a result of my transgressions, the first of which was an open institution, and of course I had it away on my toes. I know stupid as well as dishonest, but I was caught very quickly and transported to Strangeways prison to await allocation to a closed Borstal.
When the time came for me to leave that happy little village I discovered that as I had been caught in prison uniform, I was to be provided with civilian clothes from the rag bag collection they kept for just such an occasion.

I tried several suits on but the only one that came anywhere near me was a very mouldy, very smelly, very badly cut herringbone suit that must have been pre war. The comments I received from my fellow coach travellers, all of whom were wearing the trendy clothes they had attended court in prior to their being sent down can't be repeated here, but I'm sure you can understand how miserable I felt. In short, herringbone has been something of a yo yo experience for me. And in the early hours of this morning it came back to haunt me again. I was back on that coach, but in the dream I was surrounded by friends and family all laughing at me, I was wearing the herringbone two piece suit that had made me catch my breath all those years ago.