Shorts

Men unlike women can get very attached to their shorts, usually because they sweat a lot and don’t launder them to often. I don’t have that excuse, with me it’s just a case of comfort, however I noticed this morning that my wearer friendly boxers were looking a little tired and worn. So I inspected them all and found them to be just a little frayed round the waistband and where once they were black, they have become grey. I have a wardrobe full on spanking new five packs of Kalvin Klein so replacement isn’t a problem, wearing them in, is.

Why am I blogging about knickers you might ask? Well it occurred to me that over the years women have had a better deal where nether region apparel is concerned. I goes without saying that a woman will always look better in underwear than a man will, I can go further than that and say from experience that women even look better in men’s underwear than men do.

At the turn of the last century men were completely covered by long johns, fine if you’re an arctic explorer but laughable otherwise, look in any clothing catalogue, even the good looking young male models look daft, and you can see it on their faces. So if they can’t carry it off what chance have lesser mortals got.

The thirties and forties saw the introduction of the big shorts, And I mean big, what on earth were the people who designed these things thinking of, they were bigger even that the wind traps that professional footballers wore and they looked silly. For a time shorts shrank to a manageable size but along with the vests that came with them as a set, were not what you would call sexually inspiring for women. Lets face it most women aren’t that interested in naked men anyway so we are on a looser from the start. No, the best that we can hope for is that somehow the underwear will fill the void before the lights go out.

The advent of the tightly whities didn’t help either, these things are the female equivalent of the big pants girls seem to hate so much these days. But they did the job as it were, an acceptable alternative to wind traps or thongs. Where they went wrong was in the sixties when that enlightened age gave us the string vest with pants to match. I tried them once, took them off immediately and consigned them to the dustbin. There is nothing remotely attractive about little peepholes of skin with hair protruding out everywhere. Not to mention that nipples had a habit of catching in the holes or poking out and being rubbed raw. They became a favourite of road workers who could still wear them even when they had past their best and were tatty. You couldn’t tell where the holes began and the tatt finished.

Thank god Kalvin klein came to the rescue, his shorts are not the ultimate answer but at least you can feel dignified in them. Its all we have until some brain box can come up with something that gives all men a level playing field.

Addendum

Helen has just breezed into the office and read the above. She has suggested a solution to the problem of looking good in shorts. Spend some time in the gym.

Percy Theodore Shelmerdine.

I have met many strange people over the years but one of the strangest was a chap called Percy Theodore Shelmerdine, he was a small chap of indeterminate age with a stoop so bad you would swear he had two humps on his back. He was completely bald and despite owning a tea chest full of wigs used to draw hair on his head with a black ballpoint pen.
He had one eye lower than the other that forced you to look at him lopsided, and the longest dirtiest nails I have ever seen on a man. Percy always wore several shirts at the same time none of which he washed, although he did change them daily and a jacket that was almost completely covered in badges of one kind or another.

His house was filled with junk, or as he liked to describe it, props. He insisted that everything had a use and would one day come in handy. I don’t think he ever sold anything although he had some quite valuable antiques whose sale could have allowed him to live comfortably. Instead he eked out a meagre living on what the state gave him spending most of it on essentials like cigarettes and bottles of Old toms ale. What money was left he bought dozens of eggs with, that’s all he ate, hard boiled eggs, most weeks he would buy a loaf and make it last. But his main diet was eggs, breakfast, dinner and tea. As a result of this his body was covered in boils and there was a distinct smell of sulphur about the place that at times could get very overpowering.

He returned home after the war with his passion for eggs. Brought about according to him due to his having hidden from the Germans in a barn on a war blistered French farm where his only companion was a chicken who served as his friend and provider of food for many weeks. His wife unable to tolerate the stink took off with a sheet metal worker from Sheffield and he never saw her again.

Percy loved eggs, not only was it the only thing he ate, but it was also the only thing he talked about, and he talked a lot. He had a very high pitched, falsetto type of voice which was the result of (According to him) his having his testicles removed after being rushed to hospital with an egg overdose. He complained bitterly that he had been left in the corridor for ages without being attended to and when eventually he was, he was scared he had something really serious because the nurses and doctors all wore masks and gowns.
The poor sod was put in an isolation ward (Private room as he called it) and basically left to his own devices, in fact nothing would be done for him until he had disrobed and bathed.

I can’t really blame the hospital staff; Percy did have a rather indiscreet personal cologne which he himself was unaware of, however bending to the will of they that know better, Percy undressed and had a bath, after which the sawbones set about diagnosing his ailments. They had their work cut out for them; years of eating Oeufs mollets had taken its toll on his pitiful body. I went to see him in hospital; he had no relatives and very few friends. I had only been with him for several minutes before being summoned to the nurses office, the doctor who was treating him assumed I was his son and set about reprimanding me for not taking care of the old man. I won’t repeat what he said but you can be sure that the word eggs kept cropping up during his verbal assault.

I didn’t stop him, he looked like he had endured a stressful day and needed this chance to let of steam. When he finished I informed him that I was a friend and had no influence what so ever in Percy’s eating habits but that I would try to persuade him to adopt a more sensible diet. Of course I knew that was an impossible task, you see when I say that Percy loved eggs, I mean he really loved them. He would eat each one as though it was his first meal for days. It’s quite possible that if he could have made love to an egg, Percy would have done it. In the end his love for eggs took his teeth, his hair, his gonads and his reason. He finished up in a home dressed in bright pyjamas eating healthy food and furiously picking his nose.

I visited him several times, but he didn’t recognise me, and to be honest I didn’t recognise him, the smell had disappeared his bald head was bereft of ballpoint pen and when I tried to help him remember, he just looked at me through his lopsided eyes. The Matron in charge like the doctor before her assumed that I was his son. She informed me that he had no visitors other than myself. I told her that he did have relatives but that he hadn’t seen them for years, they only came out of the woodwork when he was forced to abandon his house and come to live in the home. They had probably cleared the place and were even now drinking the profits.

I asked her if he still ate lots of eggs, she told me that he wouldn’t touch an egg, they had tried him with them a couple of times and he had become quite violent and had thrown the eggs at another resident. Poor Percy oblivious in his dementia of the one thing he had loved most in his life.

Las Vegas, hardly

I am supposed to be going to Blackpool next week with a friend, just an overnight stay and a piss up really. Some friends of mine have a hotel there. Nice lads one of whom used to be in a band called paper lace, or is it black lace, anyway the hotel is their retirement home after spending many years as agents for some of the biggest acts in England. Usually when I stay I have a drink or two in the bar before going out on the town. Or at least that’s the idea, but so entertaining and friendly are these two that I often end up staying in the bar all night. Paul’s rendition of “I’m a little teapot short and stout” has to be seen to be believed.

As much as I love travelling abroad, Blackpool holds an attraction for me that goes back to my youth. I know it’s tacky, expensive and even predictable, but the excitement I feel when approaching from the north or south pier road is the best part of the journey to that tatty Disneyland. I took a Canadian friend of mine there once for a whistle stop tour and she was left almost speechless at what she saw.

We came in from the tower end and drove leisurely down the front, she looked open mouthed at groups of women dressed as schoolgirls or police women, guys dressed in BDSM gear with their arses hanging out of their leather pants calmly having a drink in the afternoon sun. At one point fourteen or so Elvis’s paraded past making completely un Elvis type sounds. As we neared the pier a girl jumped out of a car, slid across the bonnet Starsky and Hutch style and proceeded to beat the shit out of another girl on the pavement.

Further down as we approached the pleasure beach a man and women came tumbling out of a pub scrapping much like Popeye and Bluto used to do in the cartoons. My friend thought this was all hilarious, and to put the cap on it as we pulled into my friends hotel Paul was outside watering the imitation trees outside reception. As he saw us approach of course he did his teapot routine; my companion must have thought the English mad. “We have nothing like this in Quebec” she said, of course not I replied, you cant have this and Baton Rouge.

I remember a few years ago going to Blackpool for a three-day break before going the week after to Spain, I spent six hundred quid in three days there. The trip to Spain was for a week and I only spent three hundred.

Even so I am looking forward to my mini break in the Las Vegas of the north, no doubt we will do the usual places after stuffing ourselves with inedible orange chips in the pleasure beach, and no doubt at the end of it all I will need a beak.

Bored, bored, bored.

I don’t know why I bother blogging at the weekend; people blog less during these two days than at any other time. Probably because they have better things to do than waste their free time. I read somewhere that blog reading wastes more man-hours than time of work due to illness, so far from being free it probably costs the taxpayer billions of pounds.

Any way I thought I would come into work, it’s a short hop from the train station where I dropped my friend of this morning. She is going down to London for the week, sort of as family break, she doesn’t see her parents often these days. I was invited to go with her and sample the delights of our capital city, I declined, I hate the place. I suppose I should really be at home cleaning, god knows the place needs it. A friend who came round the other day suggested I run the Hoover over the kitchen carpet. He looked confused when I told him that I had genuine imitation wood flooring not carpet and he kept rubbing the side of his shoe backwards and forwards on the floor until he was rewarded with a small patch of imitation wood flooring. Why don’t people believe you?

The bathroom is a minefield of empty bleach bottles, used toilet roll centres soap boxes and toothpaste tubes. A blue peter presenter could make a small entertainment centre and hotel complex out of that lot.
I will make a start on it Sunday, maybe. Perhaps I should get a maid, It would be nice to have something in a size ten, with blonde hair, big boobs and dumb as a piss stone pottering around the old family pile. I can just see her wobbling across the living room in high heels flicking a duster, pouting and saying “Oh Mr D don’t be silly, I don’t need wages, just sing to me pleeeeeeeeease”. She could wear one of those little short French maid outfits, I think Iv got one somewhere, I think I have a feather duster too that doubles as a whip.

So here I sit in my office surrounded by empty coffee cups and mountains of faxes imploring me to buy or rent; Water vendor, office humidifier, import containers, new car, or even a new fax machine so that I can get yet more of this shit uninvited down the phone line. You can’t stop them either. Phoning the number they provide for doing just that is a waste of time, and money, not to mention a waste of printer toner.

Its times like this that I long for the sun and the Aegean Sea of Greece, oh well, one day.

In memory of Lynn Fox,

Up until three months before she died, Lynn had been training in the hope of running the London marathon herself, to celebrate ten years since being given the all clear following her first bout of breast cancer. These guys are determined to finish what she started, and have all been training hard, motivated by the fact that this was something hugely important to Lynn.

Please visit the website or click the title above and give generously.

http://www.justgiving.com/karatointon

The amazing rolling ruler.

Norman was the unlikeliest ladies man I have ever met. He was five foot two, had one leg shorter than the other, and had a nose that W C Fields would have been proud of. But the killer was his bright orange wig. It fell far short of where (what was left) his real hair began displaying a large smiley mouth shaped patch of glistening skin between the two.

Wherever he went people stared at this beacon of light plonked on his head, he seamed oblivious to the attention his syrup attracted. His limping gate made him sway from side to side and it was not unknown for people to follow him just to see if it would fall off.

The first time I saw him was at an electronics rally in Oldham, he had pitched his table in one corner of the room and was demonstrating the Amazing-rolling ruler to a large crowd of people. This is what he did for a living, he would buy a product at a knocked down price and much like the shopping channels of today would put the product through its paces demonstrating that whilst you had so far managed without it, your life would be so much the richer should you buy it.

As I stood there watching him draw shapes and lines with the Amazing rolling ruler faster than the eye could keep up with, I looked around at his audience, they looked on impressed and open mouthed, but it wasn’t the product they were looking at. It was Norman’s bright orange wig dancing on his head. He turned to the left, his wig stayed where it was, he turned to the right, his wig refused to comply. It seemed that he wig had a mind of its own, as Norman moved and turned his head the wig pivoted about a central point on his baldpate.

At the end of each demonstration he would hold up the Amazing rolling ruler and inform everyone that they could own this marvellous device, not for a fiver, not for three quid, not even for two unmissable pounds. But for just one pound, yes one pound ladies and gentlemen you could do away with all your writing and drawing implements and do it all with the amazing rolling ruler.

They walked zombie like toward him, pound in hand staring at his self-articulating wig. Then he would start all over again with another crowd of spellbound gawkers; he must have made a fortune. I’m sure he thought his success was down to his powers as a salesman, but it had to be the wig, and I think it might have been that which attracted the ladies. I got talking to him later over lunch in the café, where we were joined by his current girlfriend, tall, long blonde hair, sun-tanned and the longest legs I have ever seen.

They looked an odd couple and I saw him receive many a jealous look from less follicly challenged males that day. They were obviously wondering what it was that he had that they didn’t. But I know what it was, how can any girl resist an Amazing rolling ruler.

Steak & Ale Pie.

I think its time to pack it in; it’s all over for me I think. This morning as I was whizzing round Asda three people asked me where things were and the sad thing is, I knew the isle, the shelf and what each item was next to. I’m usually in and out as quickly as possible and today would have been no exception, but I found myself stood in front of the tinned pie’s section staring at Fray Bentos stake & ale pies.

Most people can be jerked back to happier times or treasured memories by the sight, sound even smell of something, It could be the falling of petals from a cherry blossom tree as you walk down a quiet street. It could be the strains of a once shared love song that rekindles feelings you thought you had pushed to the back of your mind. Or perhaps the smell of nature reminds you of a day lying in a field of gold with someone special and making plans for a future that never came to be.

Well for me its bloody steak & ale pie, all the other reminders I mentioned probably happen every Preston Guild with other people, but my torture happens every time I go shopping at Asda. I normally avoid memory catalysts like the plague, but Asda is cheap, convenient and quick. I remember once they had a change round one week and I thought I had got away with it. But as I turned into another Isle expecting to see tins of Tuna and Salmon, there they were in a huge promotional display staring at me.
There was every type of pie that Fray Bentos make in a bleeding great ark around the biggest tin of steak & ale pie I have ever seen.

I shouldn’t have been surprised, that kind of thing is always happening to me, it’s my fate, it’s my destiny, I was born to suffer. I’m probably just too sentimental, as Kaz would say “An incurable romantic” In fact I know I am, it runs in the family. I can remember a long time ago calling at my Sisters hotel when she was over here from Spain visiting. Whilst waiting for her I noticed a house brick on the coffee table, I asked her where it had come from and she explained that she had taken it from the rubble of the house we had grown up in as a reminder from that happy time.

And you think I’m crackers?

This summers must see

Dave D aka Donkey D.

Things are looking up, I saw an old school chum this morning, Dave D and unlike some of my other school pals he doesn’t have one foot in the grave. In fact he looks a picture of health and no different than I remembered him from years ago. He came up behind me in the shop whilst I was buying a paper pinched my ankle and made a barking sound, thinking I had been bitten I jumped a mile and was about to floor him when he explained who he was. The Indian gentleman serving me began waving his arms around and shouting “Get out, get out no fighting in here” then he came from behind the counter and pushed us both toward the door. I thought he over reacted, but I did jump quite high nearly knocking the chap in front of me over and I think I swore loudly. Dave D was laughing throughout the whole thing and as the door was slammed behind us he shouted “Shove your paper up your arse, can’t you take a joke”.

It all came flooding back to me, can’t you take a joke might have been his catch phrase, he was always saying it to someone, but then he was always playing practical jokes on people who never seemed to see the funny side of his lunatic actions. I reminded him that the last time we had seen each other he had us thrown out of a pub for making lewd suggestions to one of the barmaids who just happened to be the landlord’s daughter.

He didn’t tell me what he had said but I can guess. He was what you call a well-endowed chap and not at all shy about it, In fact he would inform anyone who would listen after he had downed a few drinks. As gross as this might sound most of the time he could get away with it because he was such a likeable type of bloke, always the life and soul of the party. But there would be the odd occasion when his forwardness would get him into trouble.

He seemed to have a death wish when it came to authority and was constantly in trouble at school despite his having above average intelligence and being confidently academic. He couldn’t abide pompousness and wasn’t very fond of lectures when he had transgressed. “Tell me off, punish me, let me go, don’t drag it out just to hear yourself talk”, that was how he looked at it. I remember once several of us had been caught doing something we shouldn’t have been doing and were sent up to the head for a bollocking and a spot of corporal.
We stood in a row heads bowed in front of the headmaster’s desk as he read the riot act to us. It went on and on and on, I could see Dave starting to fidget a sure sign that something would soon go wrong.

Eventually the headmaster finished and asked each in turn if we had anything to say, of course we meekly apologised, insisted that it wouldn’t happen again, the usual bullshit you come out with when your in that situation. When he came to Dave he asked the same question he had asked us all “have you got anything to say” Dave stared him right in the eye and said in a loud and confident voice “Balls all your worship”.

My heart sank, someone giggled, the head sprang from behind his desk and roared “What did you say boy”, Dave looked him in the eye and said again but louder “Balls all, are you deaf”. The heads face was bright crimson; he screamed at the rest of us to wait outside, we filed out quickly, Dave started to follow but was dragged back then the door slammed.

We listened intently, from behind the door we heard the head demand that he hold out his hand, our pal refused, the head demanded again, I heard him say “get it over with then, take it out on me cos yer didn’t get yer conkers last night”. The headmaster roared again “you insolent little bastard”. There was a loud thwack as the strap landed on his outstretched hand, Dave said “didn’t hurt” then another thwack and again “didn’t hurt” I lost count after eight, but each thwack was followed by the words “didn’t hurt”. We all stood shaking and with every thwack we flinched. Eventually there was silence, then the head screamed at him to get out, the door opened and a defiant Dave sauntered past us, he looked back as we stood there open mouthed and winked at us. The headmaster bright red and sweating shouted at us to get out of his sight.

We scattered in all directions, I caught up with Dave in the boy’s toilets, he had his hands under a cold water tap and was shaking. I asked him if he was ok, and why he had done such a stupid thing. He laughed and said “well you cant complain, you lot got off with it” but there were tears in his eyes. After that episode he was a legend in the school, I’m sure that kind of thing happens all the time nowadays, but in my school days insurgence was a rare thing.

He doesn’t seem to have changed at all; he is going to call me to arrange a night out, that should be an interesting Blog.

Footnote: Conkers Sex with the wife.

Patrick Broadhurst 1946-1975 16th March Angola

Was it so hard, Achilles,
So very hard to die?
Thou knowest and I know not
So much the happier am I.

I will go back this morning
From Imbros over the sea.
Stand in the trench, Achilles,
Flame capped and shout for me.

A friend in need.

I get on rather well with women, and have done since I was a kid. When other kids were screaming to get out of their wheels and go play in the sand, I would opt to stay with the ladies and study the strange and fascinating world of the kind people. That’s how I saw them. My Father once told me that “A woman was the most valuable thing a man could possess, and that that’s how most men thought of women, as possessions. But you can’t own people; you can only keep them close by showing love and respect, and allowing them to be who they are, another person”.

My education and philosophy on life began from the moment I could talk, I didn’t always understand what my Father was teaching me, but it went in and as I grew older I understood more. He imparted knowledge either as fact or opinion, there was always a distinct demarcation of the two and I trusted him on both. He was an enlightened and forward thinking man who had a unique sense of humour, people loved his company and they could be seen to visibly relax when he was around.

My Father and I were in the park one day kicking a football around, when a chap he knew came along and they sat on a bench chatting for a while, the man asked my father for advice about how to deal with his wayward wife. I got the gist of what was being said as I pretended to inspect the laces on my football. For a long time after I was under the impression that this man only had half a wife. I reminded my Father about this event as a young adult and he clarified things for me. He had told the man this “Fifty percent of a mans life is a woman, but if he doesn’t understand her then he can only be half of what he is”. I understood then, but I don’t think the man with the wayward wife did because she had it away on her toes with a German merchant seaman from Lubeck whose ship had docked in Trafford.

Over the years I tried hard to understand what made women tick, an impossible task really as each is an individual and subject to their own personal philosophy. However I have had great fun trying and will continue to do so for as long as I am compos mentis. The other night I found myself round at a friend’s house for a drink and a heart to heart. She had eventually broken with her boyfriend after several years of him quitting jobs for various ailments like whiplash driving a forklift truck, bad back due to turning around, strained wrists as a result of writing too much. The list is endless but I won’t go on and as daft as some of this sounds I kid you not.

It wasn’t just the job thing either; she works as well as looking after a young child but he didn’t do his share around the house which might have helped his case. So when he came home early from work and told her he had had enough of his new job, she gave him the ultimatum, get right back or get right out. He chose the latter without argument and within an hour was on a train destined for Scotland. It wasn’t really a shock to her, she told me she had expected it for a while, I think she just needed someone to let of steam to and get pissed with. So let of steam she did and of course we got well and truly pissed.

Around two in the morning she decided to cook a meal for us, I asked her if it was going to be one of the elaborate concoctions she bangs together when she has had a drink, and if so to leave me out. I was told not to worry and that it would be normal grub. I should have known better, the meal consisted of chips, sausage, and hamburger cooked in the chip pan with a beef bourguignon ready meal thrown on top and covered in chicken and mushroom sauce with a sprinkling of grated cheese. Even she couldn’t eat this mess so it finished up inside the dog.

I attended an Anne Summers type party once after she dared me to come and do a strip. All the girls new each other and I knew most of them, the only person upset with this arrangement was the lady holding the party, but she relented when told that I was appearing as the guest stripper. I knew I was going to have the piss ripped out of me royal but I went anyway. I had a lot of fun, drank a lot of cheap wine, was given a unique insight into girl’s sexual banter, and when pressed to do my strip was allowed to stop at my shorts, much to my relief. Afterwards I called at the local for an aperitif still sporting a large badge that declared me to be a dick head. I think I must be.

I have called round a couple of times just to check that she is ok, and noticed that since her boyfriend has disappeared from the house, so has the subtle aroma of grilled kippers, I prefer Paco Rabanne myself.

Metal man.

I was in a rush this morning to get in to work not because I like work, far from it but I was expecting an important phone call. Five minutes from home and I realised that I desperately needed the bathroom. Should I turn back or make a run for it, I made a run for it, and was reminded yet again that when in that situation the nearer you get to the point of relief, the more desperate you become. Of course the traffic was building up and moving as slowly as it possibly could, and I swear that people were looking at me through their car windows, smirking and deliberately getting in my way.

As I turned into the car park I saw that a white van driver had stolen my parking space. I made a mental note to let his tyres down at the earliest opportunity, but eventually found a spot some seventy miles from the main doors and run key in hand to let myself in. By now sweat had broken out on my forehead and my blood had run cold, it’s the same sort of feeling a prisoner in the dock gets when the judge dons his black cap and pronounces sentence. Which is why I completely ignored a face I haven’t seen for some time.

It belonged to a chap who used to work here; his name is also Dave. He came to us strait out of the army which is why whenever he hosted an event, he would have the customers running around or doubling up, marching to and from the spectator gallery and generally behaving like regulars on exercise. He is a likeable lad despite his sergeant major ways and a little odd too which I think is a plus.

Its funny that despite him serving in two campaigns, one of which was quite bloody, he chose to loose the plot whilst working for us, a measure perhaps of the stress levels that exist here at desolation row.
It started after being hauled in front of the MD for making a group of kids enjoying a birthday party hit the deck and give him twenty. Personally I would have done the same, they were running amok and no amount of shouting made them take any notice. The parents thought it great fun to see our hero being run ragged and covered in hamburger and chips, however they didn’t see the funny side of their little tykes having to press twenty with a big hob nail boot on the back of their neck.

He spent his dinner hour working on Bob, a life size metal man he was building out of old car parts. It was a unique piece or work and very cleverly done, the arms and legs articulated the head moved from side to side and it could be placed in any position and locked. It looked a lot like the terminator robot although not as shiny and it weighed a ton. But Bob went everywhere with Dave they were inseparable.
As I flew out of my car this morning blinkered to everything other than performing a basic function, I completely ignored Dave, but did manage to see him driving out as he left. It seems he is coming back to work here after his long rest and recuperation, perfectly well and again able to take up his duties as before.

As he drove out of the car park I noticed someone sat in the passenger seat, I talked with Christine the secretary who had met with Dave about his return and enquired as to why his wife hadn’t come in for a chat and a cup of tea. She informed me that he had been in a hurry and that the passenger was someone called Bob.

Belly Button Blues.

Ok so maybe I exaggerated a little in my last post when I said that the belly dancer was a bloke. It was in fact the luxurious dark haired beauty with the beckoning eyes and not my pal who shared the van and the tent alternately during that unique week of fun. To describe her, as a belly dancer was technically wrong too, she only did it for a week in a musical production the name of which escapes me at the Thameside theatre in Ashton U Lyne.

I’m told the reason her career was cut short was down to her being rather more belly than dancer. Shame really, she did eventually show me some of her exotic moves and the sparkly thing she wore in her belly button during her gyrations on stage. She even let me twiddle with it once or twice which was big of her and infinitely more interesting than the blue fluff you normally find in that location.

I once knew a girl who couldn’t stand having her belly button licked, poked prodded or otherwise messed with. Of course I licked it and was rewarded with a slap on the head. A stupid move, as it’s impossible to see the blow coming in that position, but if you have read my other posts you will be aware that I like to push the limits, which is just bravado speak for being stupid.

I often wonder how life treated Nita the dark haired beckoning eyed girl, I know she gave up the stage and got a job welding ship containers in Duckinfield, with a company that proudly boasted they made the biggest dished end in the world. She eventually wed a marriage guidance counsellor from Bolton. It was a stormy relationship and they were divorced after a year. I wonder if she showed him her sparkly belly button thing.

Purple Rain.

A fellow blogger (Typesetters workshop) listed his favourite movie as dawn as the sun rises over the ocean anywhere in the world. I can see his point, and witnessed a similar majestic vista myself all be it inland and on a lake. It happened some years ago when on a trip to Wales with three friends one of whom was a belly dancer, not that belly dancing has anything to do with this story but I thought I would get that in. Sadly he doesn’t do it any more, the years have taken their toll and the hips are usually the first to go in that game.

It was a camping expedition not something I had done since my Marple days, but my partner on this road trip was a young lady with luxurious black hair and beckoning eyes. I had taken her out several times but she had always resisted my irresistible charms, and I saw this as a chance to become more intimate. Besides which, money was in short supply that year and as they say only tight bastards and paupers go camping for a holiday. On alternate nights we would sleep in the van whilst our companions used the tent which was big enough for no more than two people. It was a toss up which was more uncomfortable. Anyone who has ever slept under canvas will be familiar with the fact that fillapidation (That’s farts to you commoners) have more impact on both the fartee and the farted upon when concentrated in a confined space, but at least the tent didn’t reek of petrol. It just reeked.

Our destination was Bala in Wales, the beautiful countryside beside Bala Lake; was chosen because my family on my Fathers side hailed from that part of the world, going back to my roots as it were. When we reached the village it was deserted. However on enquiry we were invited to pitch our tent in a small field behind the Café which was an add on to the local shop, the post office and also served as a ticket office for the small cinema that try as we might we couldn’t find.

It was late in the afternoon when we arrived and as I said the streets were empty of life, so we pitched the tent, settled in and ate some of the sandwiches we had brought with us. Toilet facilities were scant but after a great deal of farting around we all managed to make ourselves presentable. We decided to promenade the girls down the high street before going for a drink in the only pub in town. Bala is a small village so promenading took up little time and as the place was deserted it was a pointless excersise anyway. We decided to bide a wee at the War memorial, which seemed to be the centre point of the whole place and take in the balmy evening.

At precisely seven of the clock people began to appear from doors and alleyways zombie like and make their way to where we sat. It seems everyone had a place to sit or stand and anyone taking their place was either stared at until they moved or they were told to move. They looked deadly so we moved and made our way to the pub. Sadly this was Sunday and in those days pubs in Wales shut on a Sunday.

We were unaware of this Sunday law and as we approached the pub doors bright lights and loud music could be heard from within, it seemed things were looking up. It was not to be. It wouldn’t be exaggerating to say we had to push our way to the bar, but when we tried to order we were told that the pub was closed. It was almost like a western saloon when the baddie walks through the swing doors ok the music didn’t stop but everyone turned to look at us and they didn’t look friendly.

The atmosphere puts me in mind of the film an American werewolf in London, when the stranger walked into the pub and was told, “best if you leave, your type aren’t welcome ere abouts” but spoken with a Welsh accent of course. Things were beginning to get scary so we left and went back to the campsite. Over a cup of tea and the last of our sandwiches we decide that in the morning we would leave and find somewhere friendlier.

That first night I spent in the tent with the black haired beckoning eyed beauty whom I did my best to seduce. However her will was far stronger than my lustful advances and I failed miserably, repeated attacks were skilfully warded off, so I went into a five hour sulk (Well its what blokes do) at any rate I couldn’t sleep. So around five in the morning I grabbed the torch and decided to go for a walk. As I passed the van that the other couple was sleeping in I couldn’t help but notice that it was swaying from side to side and muffled cries could be heard from behind the steamed up windows. My friend the belly dancer was obviously having more luck than I was.

It was warm for so early in the morning and still dark, but as I walked down the narrow road toward the lakeside I could see over the tops of the tall hills on the opposite side of the lake that dawn was imminent. The dark blue sky was tinged with peach; and here and there pale red streaks ran through it like strawberry ice cream. I walked down to the lakeside and sat on a large rock to watch the sun rise on this happy little hamlet and as I marvelled at the unfolding view, I wished I could have had more luck with my reluctant black haired beckoning eyed girl.

Its amazing how many colours nature can paint with very little effort, but I hadn’t seen anything yet. The red and peach turned to vivid orange and for a while the sky looked as though it was on fire. Then quite quickly dark clouds chased away this fine display and for a brief moment it was dark again. As the clouds passed overhead they left behind a purple sky that was reflected in a perfectly still lake. From miles away I heard a deep rumbling and then the sky lit up with lightning, enormous cracked tendrils of energy danced in the air and the lake mirrored the sky. Then the heavens opened and the dark band of hills between the two was filled with purple rain.

I stood up to walk back to the camp when I saw something out of the corner of my eye scurry past me and head toward the road. It looked like a person, but no more than eighteen inches high, female and although obviously dressed the garments were transparent. I gave chase, when she reached the road she stopped turned one hundred and eighty degrees and walked slowly across the road backwards. This enabled me to gain ground, but when she reached the other side of the road, she smiled at me, turned around again and ran, bounding every few steps like a gazelle into the pine Forrest.

I followed as fast as I could, but I was no gazelle, it had started to rain really hard now and the raindrops were as big as sixpence’s, as they hit the ground they made a loud splat noise that along with the thunder soon became deafening. The Forrest was dense and quite dark, but a few feet into it, the bedlam from outside subsided, and the deeper I went the quieter it became. The canopy was some fifteen feet above my head; it was thick and formed a ceiling of sorts. The Forrest floor was ankle deep in pine needles and covered in a blue grey mist that reached nearly to my knees, and the whole scene was lit occasionally from the lightening flashes.

There was no sign of the creature other than a swirling trail through the mist like the wake of a boat through water and no sound save the crunching of pine needles under my feet. The light from the torch was feeble and didn’t cut very far into the darkness, but it was enough to see that though the Forrest was silent and still, as I played its beam, there was movement where it had just shone. I shouted hello more to comfort myself than anything else. My voice just echoed through the tall trees several times and died, I suddenly felt very lonely and turned to leave the Forrest. For some reason I changed my mind and walked backward looking over my shoulder every now and again to avoid bumping into anything.

Just as I reached the edge of the Forrest I stopped and shouted hello again. As before my voice echoed through the trees and died, I stood still looking into the darkness and as I turned off the now dying torch from somewhere in the mist a thin voice said these words “Finush, finush dasta driss” then a high pitched laugh.

It was at this point that the Gazelle like qualities that had previously deserted me suddenly returned and I ran like a man possessed back to the campsite and the safety of the tent. I cant say whether the van was still rocking but I was shaking like a leaf, it was impossible now to get any sleep, so I sat there trying to make sense of what had just happened.

Before long everyone was awake and making preparation to leave, I was given the task of returning the toilet key to the lady in the café, come shop, come post office, come cinema, and buy munchies for our journey into normality. I told our host what had happened, she pushed the change into my hand and looked hard at me for what seemed ages, then she spoke. “I wouldn’t be telling anyone else about that if I were you. There are folk round here have been looking long years for what you saw” I told her that I didn’t know what I had seen, and that it was beyond me why anyone would want to see. “For the wish of course, if you see a fairy you get a wish”.

What she said next made my hair stand on end. “Fairies have to drink from still water or they die. If they are caught in the rain they lose their powers for a year and a day. When they cross a path, a stream or pass bye a human’s house they have to do so walking backward. If any light other than natures own falls across them they forget their name unless they say it out loud” For the second time that morning I found myself walking backwards.

I returned to my fellow travellers who were in the van waiting to leave. We drove all over Wales without anything else untoward happening, and it was an enjoyable experience, though for the rest of the trip I was unusually quiet and didn’t pay much attention to the black haired beckoning eyed girl. I was still trying to make sense of the events a few days before. For some reason my apparent coldness towards her had the effect of fuelling her interest in me, and before the holiday was over my original mission which was of course to know her in the biblical sense had been accomplished.

Now you can believe or disbelieve this story after all there was no witness to the events other than myself. But think on this, the last thought that went through my mind just before the creature jumped up and ran away from me was to wish that I could have more luck with the black haired beckoning eyed girl.
Despite being in flight she took the time to smile at me as she crossed the road before bounding into the Forrest. I did shine a torch that isn’t natural light after her, which is perhaps the reason for the high pitched voice I heard just before I left the Forrest

Its up to you, over the years I have thought about that day, and now I think I know the secret, for hundreds of years people have looked for fairies simply to have a wish come true. But to see a fairy, you have to have a wish.

“Finush, finush dasta driss”

Caveo, cautum, cavi

Is quisnam est proditor mos peto ultionis quod totus of abyssus ero lais procul vestri ianua.

On beating bully's part two.

Linda R was a pretty blonde girl who lived in Stockport and had come down to Manchester to visit Belle Vue with her sister and cousin to enjoy the excitement of the fairground and wander around the famous zoo at that once great emporium of pleasure. It was early in sixty-four, the days had just started to lengthen and the weather had turned from winter cold to a warm spring. My pals and I had cheated the turnstiles yet again by unscrewing part of the railings on the boating lakeside and squeezed through thus saving us one and six. Which meant of course that we could buy fags, or go on a few of the rides, whichever took our fancy.

We had been there for an hour or so when as we walked toward the monkey house. I saw Linda coming out, she smiled and of course I was immediately in love, we didn’t stay long with the monkeys, they were in a foul mood throwing things at people passing the cages and pissing on anyone stupid enough to get too close. We made our way toward a quieter part of the zoo where the sea lions lived. As we approached this rather dishevelled building I noticed the pretty blonde girl again, this time she and her friends were sat on a bench just outside the rather grandly named sea world. My friends entered the sea lion house but I had slowed down in the hope of perhaps getting another smile from her, just then a group of lads walked over and started to talk to them. I lingered at the entrance just in case, and was just about to give up and follow my pals when things turned nasty. It was obvious that the girls didn’t want to talk to them because they were trying to get up to leave, but every time they did they were pushed back down onto the bench.

This was not the way to treat ladies and in a moment of madness I decided that these uncouth bastards needed to be taught a lesson. Because of a pretty face a delightful summer dress and something as simple as a smile I decided to walk into the valley of death and save this fair maiden from the hands of these ruffians. Its amazing how stupid men can be sometimes, the funny thing is I wasn’t scared, I should have been anyone with common sense would have been. But I strode up to them grabbed the offenders arm spun him round and told him to leave the girls alone and go bother someone else. I stood there looking into the face of Toffee Holland, my old adversary from junior school. (See on beating bully’s) He shook my hand of his arm and snarled at his mates to “get him” but just then my pals wondering where I was had come outside and seeing what was happening, shouted “Fair fight, fair fight” and so it was to be. My pals backed of, his pals backed of, the girls backed of, I think at this point I should have backed of, but I had gone too far and it would have looked bad in front of the pretty blonde girl.

We circled each other for a minute or so fists at the ready, then he lunged at me knocking me to the ground, my wind was gone and he sat astride my chest reigning blows into my face. Its fair to say that at this point I was getting the shit kicked out of me, that day in the school yard came flooding back to me. It was a private embarrassment that I carried for years, and it seemed to be happening again, but far worse, it was happening in front of the pretty blonde girl. My Father always taught me not to fight, but if you have to he would say “fight fair”. It was fairly obvious that fair had to go out the window, and so in desperation I grabbed his crown jewels, twisted as hard as I could and yanked them once or twice for good measure. He screamed like a girl and rolled of me clutching his bits and bobs. I stood over him waiting for him to get up, when he did I gave him the thrashing he deserved, and perhaps I went too far because my pals had to pull me off, still old demons were dispelled that day.

We spent the rest of the day walking round Bell vue with the girls and its true to say that when it came time for the girls to board the bus and go home, I was smitten. We were to see each other for a little over eight months until one night she had come down to see me and she didn’t go home. We spent the night in an old car just talking and enjoying being together. The next day there was hell to pay, her brothers came down to pick her up and take her home, her Father was ill at the time and my irresponsibility had made him worse. He died a few weeks later and rightly or wrongly I was blamed for that, and forbidden ever to see her again.

I used to take the bus up to Stockport and hang around where she lived in the hope of seeing her, but unknown to me she had been sent to live with a relative soon after her Dads death. She sent me a very sad letter in which she said how sorry she was that things had turned out the way they did, but her brothers had made things impossible.

I never did see her again, but I carried that letter with me for years, and sometimes I would take it out and read it, looking for a clue or some kind of hope I suppose, But none was there, it was as final as it could be. Years later when I was married to my first wife she confronted me with the letter after going through my wallet, I told her that it was just a memory from the past, but she insisted that I tear it up to prove that it meant nothing. The courage that Linda R had inspired in me that day in Belle Vue which had enabled me to beat the bully had deserted me, and I ripped the letter into tiny pieces and watched it blow away on the wind.

I think of her now and again, I can still see her face in my mind, she will have changed I’m sure but I remember her as she was that day, a pretty blonde girl in a summer dress smiling.

Desperate Dave

I called at a friends on the way home the other night, she very kindly offered me dinner which I accepted, I wasn’t in the mood for cooking so this I thought would be a timely gift, how wrong I was. She has discovered Cordon Bleu cooking. The starter I think was Crawdad soup, followed by something akin to Florida swamp water with things that seemed to move in it, and little squares of bread with a kind of green Marmite on them. It was hard enough to get through this lot without puking, but when she served up the (Her words) pissed da resistance, I could hardly contain my stomach. It consisted of apple pie and I assume custard, I say assume because although the apple pie looked edible, it was covered in what can only be described as bodily fluids of the kind you find in humungus zits.

I made lots of mmmm and lips smacking sounds as I fought my way through this assault course of food and complimented her when I had finished. On my way home I was tortured further by all this stuff bouncing around my stomach (probably trying to get out) and repeating on me. My first port of call was the bathroom where I assumed the quarter to six position and allowed all this crap to escape into the toilet.

I know I sound ungrateful but reflecting on my ordeal led me to wonder, what has happened to good old fashioned, decent, down to earth grub like my Mum used to make. She doesn’t cook much these days; in fact she lives on sesame seeds and lentils with the odd tin of chopped tomatoes thrown in. But there was a time when she used to cook handsome grub that put hairs on your chest. Like Savoury duck, Tripe covered in vinegar, beef pie and gravy, ribs and cabbage, oxtail soup, pigs belly with onions, brisket stew, huge great hot pots and my favourite on a Friday night, thick pea soup with ham shank. This would be rounded of with Jam rolly polly or strawberry tart and on a Sunday she would present us with a cracking Sunday dinner with a big tray of Yorkshire pudding, half we would have with the dinner covered in gravy and the other half after covered in sugar.

As I was writing that my mouth was watering, something it hasn’t done for a while, well not since Helen bent down over the filing cabinet. Any way I have decided that this week I am going to do some good old fashioned cooking of my own and relive the finger licking days of my youth. Wish me luck.