See ardwick rocket

On my way in this morning as I negotiated the level crossing in Clayton, I had a brush with the old farts who insist on walking in the middle of the road staring at blue titted warblers. I say brush but it was more of a thwack really, I shouted at him to get of the bonnet as I was late, he grimaced and said something but I couldn’t hear over the engine noise. I saw a pair of legs flash past my window and a bob hat disappear behind my boot lid. Thankfully there was no damage to the care but when I parked up I did notice a rucksack stuck to my rear bumper. There was nothing of any value in it other than a flask of hot chocolate and some rather dodgy tuna sandwiches, oh and a map of Clayton vale with strange marks at various points, which I assume were good sites to hide a body. I suppose it’s one less to contend with the next time that I pass that way.

Barry Seven.

I heard on the grapevine that an old mate of mine, Barry Seven checked out last week, it seems that this last few years a lot of people I grew up with are doing that at an alarming rate. Its alarming because none of them seem to be able to reach the average age for clog popping, True I belong to a generation the thinks looking after your body means having a bath every two weeks, but still the statistics make grim reading.

Barry was the type of chap that you liked on first meeting, very tall and thin with a quick wit and a ready smile. He had feet the size of Dutch barges and was fond of winking at the ladies and saying, “You know what they say about men with big feet don’t ya girls”. I know several girls in our peer group that fell for that line and were bitterly disappointed to find out that Barry’s theory didn’t hold water, it passed water but that’s about all. I comforted them the best I could; well I’m that type of chap.

He had various jobs when he left school but never majored in anything other than drinking alcohol, had there been exams for that he would have got A’s across the board.

Over the years he shrunk in stature, had various ailments, and acquired the complexion of a well-worn carpet. He was married and divorced twice, lost a child in a car accident, went to prison for debt but I never heard him complain or moan about anything. I saw him on the millennium new year in a pub with both his ex wives drinking up a storm, Apparently he had been officially confirmed as an alcoholic, and felt that a bigger reason to celebrate than the passing of a thousand years.

Word reached me from time to time about him fighting, or being arrested for being drunk and disorderly. I last saw him on Gorton market with his new wife, she was some years younger than him and quite pretty, she trotted of to look at underwear whilst Barry and I talked old times. I asked him if he still had a drink problem, to which he replied beaming “Nahh mate, sorted that out, got myself a pub in Duckinfield now”. He invited me down of course, but I didn’t go I wish I had gone now, Barry had finally found his vocation, and it would have been nice to see him on the other side of the bar for a change.

In the end it wasn’t his liver that did for him, but the simple act of cutting the toenails on his huge plates of meat, it seems he nicked a toe, which became infected and as a result they took his leg off.
Not long after that complications set in, and last week Barry went to that big boozer in the sky, I’m not sorry I missed the funeral, I have been to enough of them to last me a lifetime. I prefer to remember him smiling and winking at girls, although his smile was always wider when he was lifting a pint of beer.

Bonza Geoff.

Geoff was an only child and I’m sad to say was spoiled rotten by his adoring parents who were ruled by one upmanship. Considering that they lived in a rather run down part of the city its surprising in a way, they had no money to speak of, his Father was a joiner and whilst he earned a reasonable wage it obviously wasn’t enough to enable them to move to a better area. I remember that they had central heating installed over a period of years. First the radiators went in, then when they could afford it the boiler, but it was some time before it was up and running properly, although from the beginning they used to proudly tell anyone who would listen that they had central heating.

He was a thin weak boy who as far as I know only had one friend, me. On the run up to birthdays and Christmas he would always try to wheedle out of my brother and I what presents we were going to receive, he would then tell his parents who would buy him the same thing only it would be a rather more expensive version. He would then show it of to us and make very sure we knew how much it cost. This used to needle my Father no end, but it didn’t bother me at all, I learned very early on that the cost of all this to Geoff’s family meant that they lived for the most part on Jam butties and porridge.

A lot of the time I felt sorry for Geoff, he was frail and whiny and not many of the local kids had time for him. He was not what you would call a gregarious child, he spent a lot of time on his own or with his mum who used to dress him in girls clothes when she had the chance.

Still I give him his due he did try, although it could be annoying to play cricket with a guy who ran like a girl and threw a ball like a girl, and he couldn’t catch to save his life. We went through school together until high school where we went our separate ways, and I didn’t see him again until I was about seventeen. I was crossing the main road near Belle Vue when this flimsy thing in black and purple chiffon passed me going the other way. I heard my name shrieked, “David my god, how are you” it was Geoff, he pulled me to one side and began speaking at the speed of light in a very effeminate way.

It was obvious that we had gone our separate ways in more ways than one, not that it bothered me, in fact I was glad to see him again. He was different than I remembered, far more outgoing, much more confident, and funny to boot. He told me about how he and his boyfriend were in the process of immigrating to Australia and starting a new business, I wasn’t too sure about how the Ausses would react to chiffon but I kept my mouth shut. Two weeks before departure they held a party at a local club, to which I was invited, It was a good night; I wished him well for the future and didn’t see him again for twenty years.

Until one hot summer day as I sat outside my local tavern enjoying a rather cheeky lager, this huge mountain of a man dressed in white shorts and black vest top, as brown as beef and onion crisps and covered in tattoo’s came ambling toward me with a dog the size of a bear in tow. He made his way towards the front door but stopped at my table. This time my name was spoken with the kind of voice that bloke who advertises action films uses, sort of growly. “Dave, Dave, Its me Geoff, how are ya mate” I shielded my eyes from the sun and looked up at him, a full six foot and built like a brick water closet, he stood there grinning from ear to ear. I didn’t recognise him but said hello anyway; well I didn’t want to feed his dog with one of my arms, best to ere on the side of caution.

“You don’t recognise me do yer mate” he growled, “Its Geoff” he said his surname, suddenly realisation dawned on me. “Geoff, blimy lad how long has it been, but you used to be a…..” I bit my tongue. We sat in the sun for an hour or two catching up and enjoying our drinks, and despite myself I had to ask. It turns out that he apparently was going through a phase, all be it one that lasted thirty odd years. He was now married with three kids and prefers to put those years behind him (His terminology not mine) I asked if his wife knew and he told me that it was his boyfriend who introduced them at a party. Apparently the boyfriend ran off with an indigenous native from those parts and she became his shoulder to cry on.

The last time I heard from them was about five years ago, they had upped sticks and moved to Greece where now they run a Hotel and by all accounts are doing very well. He emails me from time to time and always invites me over for a bonza holiday (I assume that means good) but as yet I haven’t taken them up on their offer.

Maybe next year, tell you what though, it takes all kinds.

New boobs.

A friend of mine is thinking of having a boob job, today she is going for a consultation in Manchester. I suppose to find out how much it will cost, maybe they will have some special offers on, well its not long since the January sales and there could be some bargains to be had. Thinking from a mans point of view she doesn't need a boob job, they look fine to me. But as she is fond of saying after a couple of drinks “They look ok in a bra, but out and flopping around you wouldn’t give them a second look” I beg to differ dear I’m a dirty old man remember.

The first time she told me about her possible cosmetic surgery, she said that she couldn’t decide whether or not to get her boobs sorted or her tummy. I advised her to consider the fact that as she wanted another child it would be pointless having her tummy rearranged, hmmm she thought for a while, “What do you think about my arse” she spun round to give me a better look. I raised my eyebrows in admiration, “Trust me your arse looks delicious” I think I licked my lips but cant be sure, all this body talk was making me a little light headed. I just hope her boyfriend appreciates all this work she is going to have done, somehow I doubt he will, unless of course she starts wearing blue and white and kicks a football around.

This for Helen.

Helen squinted through the rain that lashed at her face, she leaned into the cold wind unrelenting in its ferocity, and each gust caught the raincoat and whipped it across her legs, making her wince with pain. She breathed in that curious way people do in a storm, her top lip exaggeratedly pushed further out than her bottom lip, in an attempt to stop the wind from stealing her breath. Rainwater filled her mouth; it ran down her neck onto her back soaking her clothes. She felt exhausted and decided to take shelter in the doorway of a derelict shop, but it held little cover and though desperate for a cigarette, knew she had no chance of lighting one even if they were dry.

She regretted taking this rout out of the city. It was badly lit and dangerous for a woman alone late at night, scary too because most of the buildings that had lined this old road had been pulled down to make way for redevelopment. The houses and shops that hadn't yet fallen under the demolition ball though derelict and unsafe, seemed to have a life of their own, made fluid by the rain and given motion by the wind.

Though the small doorway gave her little protection, it was infinitely better than fighting the storm. She squeezed further into the corner pulling her coat tightly around herself. As she reached into her pocket for the cigarettes, she felt something give way. She heard herself saying sorry as the door to what had once been a chemist's shop swung open and she fell forward her hands grabbing at thin air. Hitting the ground hard she rolled over onto her back and grabbed her legs protectively. She had hurt both her knees and the pain made her cry the tears she had been holding back all night. Her sobbing echoed in the empty shop and more with anger at her clumsiness than anything else began swearing loudly. Unsteadily she got to her feet and looked around, there wasn't much to see, it was quite dark, but she could make out shelves, a shop counter and in the corner near the window an old leather couch.

Out of the rain she could at least rest for a while, she closed the door and instantly the shop became quieter. She moved the old closed sign to one side and looked out at the rain as it was blown first one way then another by the wind. The thin spears hurled themselves at the ground glittering against a street lamp that shed a pale yellow light. She took her coat off and draped it over the counter to dry, it was soaked and heavy, water dripped from the hem forming puddles on the dry wooden floor, in the semi-darkness, they looked like pools of blood, she shuddered, hugging herself and sat down.

The couch was cold but surprisingly comfortable, she took out her pack of cigarettes and lit one inhaling deeply. The lighter illuminated the small shop, and she let it burn for a while taking stock of her surroundings, most of the fittings had long gone, but enough of them were left to indicate that it had been run down, even when trading. What remained was old fashioned and dilapidated. Behind the counter the wall was shelved from floor to ceiling in old dark wood and each shelf was further divided into small boxes that at one time must have been where drugs and medicine was stored. Some of the boxes still had little brass labels attached to them; even the adverts were pre war. She laughed at one that proclaimed Ivory soap was the choice of society ladies and debutantes around the world. It showed a young woman in a long ball gown beaming and looking very sophisticated. She wondered how she looked, a mess probably, still there was nothing that could be done about it, she pulled her legs up onto the couch and lay back to enjoy her cigarette. She tried vainly to blow a smoke ring, she had never quite mastered the trick, despite the tutoring she had received from her Father who was an expert at it, and could blow perfectly round rings very quickly one after the other. Hers just fell out of her mouth in a rush and formed a big white cloud. This latest attempt was no exception and for a brief time the rising plume of smoke was illuminated and turned yellow by the small amount of light from the street lamp that had managed to fight its way through the grimy shop window.

She knew this part of the city well, and could remember how most of the road she had just walked down looked before the bulldozers moved in, but couldn't remember the chemists shop despite passing it every time she travelled on the tram into town to shop. These were her freedom days, one of the few legitimate reasons she had to get away from her husband and spend a few hours alone doing as she pleased. She had known Robert from her school days and always liked him, from the beginning their friendship had been just that, friendship, she hadn't had any aspirations of romance and the idea of marrying him had never entered her head. Everybody just assumed they would marry, especially her Mother who often reminded Helen that time was marching on and admonished her for "keeping the lad waiting". And so it just crept up on her and even as arrangements for the wedding were taking place, she pushed them to the back of her mind and ignored the inevitable. Robert was kind, trustworthy, dependable, hardworking and although totally predictable, he would occasionally surprise her with a small gift or a bunch of flowers. He was also boring, he lacked imagination and seemed to be spending the first years of his life preparing for the last years. We need to be safe he would say, who knows what's around the corner.

The town centre was always teaming with people, window-shopping was her escape, and she enjoyed it all the more at this time of year when shopkeepers hung tinsel and Christmas decorations in their windows to entice people inside. Soon they would erect a huge Christmas tree in the Town Square and deck it out with coloured lights; it was a symbol of hope to her for the New Year. In that tree she saw the future, a blank canvas on which she could paint any picture she wished.
Always her trip would finish with a coffee or two at the Three Cooks Cafe, there she could sit quietly and people watch until it was time to go home. This trip had been different; she had stayed in town far longer than she usually did and had missed the last tram. She decided to take the train home and walked the half mile to the station, there she could sit in the waiting room and shelter from the rain that was getting heavier with every footstep.

The railway station was from another era, it hadn't yet been modernised and was still lit by gas lamps, the waiting room was dingy and its green and chocolate livery was well past its best although it was hard to imagine it looking smart even when new. Dingy or not the fire roaring in the old cast iron grate was more than welcome.

"There are no more trains tonight Miss, last one was at eight thirty". Helen awoke with a start and looked up to see the stationmaster standing over her. "Next train is in the morning and I'm closing the station soon, you can't stay here love". "Oh, ok" she said still half asleep. "Are you all right love you shouldn't be here this time of night, can I call you a cab"? Helen rubbed her eyes and smoothed her skirt down, "just give me a minute, I must have fallen asleep, what time is it? "It's a quarter to twelve Miss, station gates will be locked in fifteen minutes". Helen felt stupid, she had missed her last tram and now lulled to sleep by the comfort and warmth of the station waiting room she had missed the train. There was nothing left but to walk home, she couldn't afford a cab. The stationmaster began to damp down the fire for the night and turn off the gas lamps in the waiting room as Helen put her coat on and stepped out into the now raging wind and rain.

As she lay on the couch in the darkness of the shop and took a last long drag on her cigarette, she wondered what Robert would be thinking. She knew he would be worried and probably would be very angry at her silliness, yet she felt remote from him and unconcerned at what would happen when she returned home. Whatever the reception might be, she wasn't about to leave until the storm had died down and it didn't show any signs of doing that just now. She swung her legs of the couch, sat up and put the cigarette out; as she did so the graze on her knee stung and reminded her sharply of the fall earlier.
The fact that the shop hadn't been completely emptied prior to demolition made her think that there could be something lying around she could clean her wound with, after all it had been a chemists. There was nothing in the shelves or drawers behind the counter of any use, so she extended her search towards the back of the shop. What little light there was came from the old street lamp outside, so she felt her way along the counter slowly until her hands touched the till, it felt cold, there the counter ended in total darkness. She reached for her cigarette lighter, after a couple of tries it burst into flame and for a second or two she was blinded. Soon she became accustomed to the dancing flame which didn't penetrate into the darkness very far, but at least it would enable her to avoid any obstacles, she didn't want to fall again.

A few feet from the end of the counter was a doorway covered by a heavily embroidered curtain and beyond that another counter, this one was circular in shape and it enclosed the back corner of the room. It looked rather like a pub bar and even had what looked like brass beer pumps, as she got closer she could see that they were dispensing spigots. Each of them had a brass plate, which proclaimed the kind of beverage it contained. Sasperilla, dandelion and burdock, ginger liquorice. Tall stools fixed to the floor surrounded the bar and she allowed herself to imagine how years ago people would have sat there sampling the cordials from this quaint chemist's shop, although she couldn't imagine why anyone would want to drink liquorice.

On top of the bar and against the wall was an old wireless set. It looked exactly like the one her Grandfather used to listen to in his parlour, as a child she loved to twiddle the knobs and read the exotic names on the dial. The old man explained to her that each name was a place somewhere in the world. She would turned the dial slowly and people speaking strange languages would struggle to make themselves heard above the crackling static, and music that seemed so different to the kind she knew, would echo from the speaker, snake charming music she like to call it.
Helen ran her fingertips across the well-polished wood of the radio cabinet down to the Bakelite tuning knobs, suddenly she felt sad, she missed her Grandfather and the carefree days of childhood, everything seemed so complicated now. Without thinking she turned the on switch, there was a satisfying click and a dull thud came from the speaker, the radio dial lit up a murky yellow and a warm orange light came from behind the radio and illuminated the wall. She jumped back startled; the power must still be on.
Just as she remembered, the old radio hummed and crackled into life, slowly out of the static a voice cultured and warm spoke her name.

Freezing my crudgits off.

Sometime in the summer the gas board managed to find the gas metre, which was in a small brick building marked GAS METRE right outside and to the left of the main door of the company I work for.

They have been trying to take a reading for six years as far as I know, on this occasion they managed this awesome task only because the gas guy driving the van backed into it, which required him to write out a damage report. Even then he would have missed it if it hadn’t been for the badly briefed employee who as the guy started to drive away shouted "What about our gas cupboard, who is going to pay for that".

In any event the game was up and as a result the metre was disconnected because the company refused to pay the seven thousand-pound bill they presented us with. Consequently we now have no heating in the building and whilst that isn’t a problem in the summer I can assure you it’s a bleeding inconvenience in the winter. Everybody is walking around dressed like world war two trench soldiers on the Russian front. Its warmer outside than inside, and even people who don’t smoke are going out for a fag.

One good thing to come out of it was that we didn’t have to put any decorations up this Christmas, there was so much frost and so many icicles on everything that it looked like Santa’s grotto.

The main office has three electric heaters banging away, so its not too bad for them, however I just have the one heater in my office, and it can only be turned up half way or it packs up. I dread anybody walking in and steeling my heat, talk about Bob Cratchet.

I just hope the electric board don’t find the electric metre, I can’t see it actually, that’s inside and as we treat all visitors as bailiffs we are probably ok for another year or two.

Robots.

Standing in line at a supermarket checkout the other day brought home to me the fact that not all progress is beneficial, on my way there I composed a mental shopping list. I parked (eventually) entered the store, grabbed a trolley, then with lightning speed negotiated the isles, and filled up with groceries and all in less than five minutes. Then I stood in line for a little over ten minutes. Que. hopping brought this up to twelve minutes (sorry Kaz I cant help it) and in all that time the only conversation I had with another human being was a short exchange between the check out girl and I as to whether or not I needed help packing. What she asked wasn’t even unique to me, she asked everyone the same question, and we all gave the same answer, then struggled to get items into the bags as quickly as she was banging them through the till.

Its odd that in the fifties and sixties we collectively looked forward to a world free of toil where everything would be done by robots, what we didn’t realise was that it would be us that would be the robots. I understand and appreciate that supermarkets are a central point where we can do all our shopping and for the most part get everything we need. But I sometimes miss the personal touch of the corner shop. Granted their prices are a little higher, and they don’t always stock some of the things you might want, but it was a place you could take your time, catch up on local gossip and dodge beer cans thrown by the local hoodies. Mine bit the dust several months ago unable to compete with the big boys, and I now have to travel to Eastern Europe to get my Sunday paper.

When I was a kid shops seemed to be on the corner of every street, they were the days of demarcation, and the unwritten rule was that no shop crossed over into the sales territory of another shop. The street where I lived boasted two shops, Metcalves which was a general grocery shop was light and airy with posters on the wall inviting you to buy Heinz beans and Pepsodent toothpaste, the counter had pyramid stacks of cans and a huge meat slicing machine. In the corner near the door stood the five teared display of chocolate bars. I was frequently sent on errands to this shop, and I can remember that on Thursdays I would be sent for a quarter of boiled ham for my father’s tea. I would always return with just a little less than three ounces having poked my finger through the wrapping and pinched some. My Mother had many arguments with the shopkeeper about short-changing, and I don’t think she knows to this day that I was responsible.

Across the street on the other corner stood Barbers shop, this was a much darker place, it sold beer and cigarettes, hadn’t been painted since the war and had very little lighting inside apart from two gas mantles. There was a long dark brown counter on which stood three beer pumps of the kind that used to be found in pubs. I can remember buying woodbine cigarettes for my Grandfather from this shop. On Friday nights he would send me to Barbers with a cloth covered jug to buy two pints of mild. They would be pulled from the pumps on the counter by a frail old woman who on hearing the shop doorbell clang as you entered would drag herself from the dark interior of the room at the back of the shop.
There was a tall thin chap who never spoke, he had a sallow complexion and yellow hair, and he always had a half burned fag in his mouth with the ash still attached, he seemed to spend his life sweeping the bare wooden floor of the shop. What little they had in the way of window display was pre war, yellowed by the sun and covered in dust.

Two streets away was Auntie Mary’s shop. This was where you shopped when your tic had run out at the other shops, and where us kids went on hot summer days for an Aunt Mary’s home made Vimto lolly. If you were particulaly flush on birthdays you could splash out and buy a Mivi or a Pendleton’s twicer. The one thing common to all of these shops was the penny tray, this device was purpose engineered for kids, and was always kept mysteriously under the counter. It consisted of a shallow metal or wooden tray with different types of sweets laid out in rows. There were sherbet flying saucers, black jacks, penny chews, small chocolate bars, toffee cigarettes, and Liquorice of every shape and size, what ever was on the tray cost just a penny. Ah yes, you knew where you were with the penny tray, no ambiguity there.

There was one other shop that left an impression on me, it stood opposite the park across from the old church and it was more dark and dismal than even Barbers shop. It didn’t have a name as far as I know, there was no sign over the door, no name to say who owned it, but it was known locally as the wood shop. Here you could buy iron mongery. Its shelves were stocked with nails and screws in little brown cardboard boxes, hangers and brackets of every kind. There were storm lamps hanging from the ceiling and a pot bellied stove in the corner that as far as I know never did get sold and was still there when the houses in that part of Gorton was pulled down. But people mainly went there to buy firelighters, and paraffin that stank the shop out, it was kept in a huge blue fifty gallon drum that had a hand pump on top and a big funnel tied to the side with string. I used to go there sometimes on a Saturday morning and chop big sticks of wood into little sticks of wood, which would then be arranged into round bundles secured with wire and sold for threpence a bundle. These bundles of wood were used for starting the fire, along with a shovel and a newspaper to create a backdraft. For this task I was paid a shilling and I earned every penny of it. I don’t think that a Saturday went bye without me coming home with hands full of splinters and smelling of paraffin. My Mother tried to put a stop to me going there but I protested so much she always gave in, until one day I came home with a deep gash on my hand caused by the hatchet I used to cut the wood. I missed my weekly shilling, but found another way to earn money not long after.

You only had to walk a few streets in any direction to find other shops. The German butchers with all kinds of sausage hanging in the window, the fishmongers where during the summer fish would be prepared outside on a marble slab. Webs newspaper shop where I used to take the radio battery for recharging, and a strange place consisting of two shops but with only one door. Turn left and you could buy mops and dolly blue’s for your weekly washing, turn right and on offer was second hand clothes washed and ready to wear.
There was a rich diversity in the retail business, a character and way of life that disappeared with the advent of the supermarket, these days they all look the same, care of the corporate image. When you walk into one of these shops you are just another face, just another robot spending money.

Madness

Is it just me or is spending yet more money on the Olympic games when the National health service is in tatters and people are dying for lack of beds, equipment, nurses, and doctors. Just a little too much like going on the piss with your pals instead of buying the medicine for your sick child.