Long live the King.

Apart from pulling my balls out at work, fixing friends computers and giving advice and comfort to vulnerable women who have reached a watershed in their relationships, I manage Eric Summers. Eric is an Elvis impersonator and tribute artist.

He is good too, actually he is very good, far better I have to say than many of the Elvis tribute artists around these days. Most think that all they have to do to become the king is to don a white jump suit, grow their sideburns and snarl sentences like “Aha, Than yu vary much and whoa moma”. Eric on the other hand has closely studied hours of video and film, listened to hundreds of the Kings recordings and spent more time in front of a mirror than Paris Hilton.

One of the sad things about most Elvis impersonators is that they actually think they are Elvis. It’s not so much an impersonation as a way of life, which is fine if that’s what you want but embarrassing for everybody else. Once at an Elvis convention/competition in Blackpool I was stood with a group of Elvis’s (Very bizarre) and they were trying to outdo each other, good fine healthy competition you might think, but some of these guys were talking in real life like Elvis. It didn’t stop when the competition was over, they spoke to everyone like that, competition organiser, hotel staff, taxi drivers, I even saw one mini king try to chat a girl up at the bar saying “Hi baby, I’m the King ya wanna be my queen”. Her reply? “F**k off tosser”.

Sometimes when people phone me to ask about Eric’s availability they ask, “Is that Elvis” I used to answer “No I’m afraid Elvis is dead, may I help you”. I stopped that though, inevitably they would be incensed that I had mentioned Elvis and death in the same sentence and waffle on for hours about how the king was not dead and never would be whilst he still had millions of enduring fans. Some even believed that he was still alive and resting somewhere free from the bustle of the entertainment industry. They didn’t hesitate to let me know either, but we have all heard of that before, many sightings of him are testament to that fact.

I sort of get it in a way, he was a one off and very unique which is one reason I suppose for his continued popularity, and if you cant have the real thing then why not the next best, an Elvis impersonator. Or as most prefer to be called Tribute artist. The latter gives it an air of authenticity that the former could never have. But at the end of the day whatever you call it, the King is dead and if he lives it’s in the hearts of his many fans world-wide who recognise what a great man he was.

Mostly True Stories: The Power of the Pussy

Mostly True Stories: The Power of the Pussy

Split infinitive.

I’ve been informed that I “split infinitives”. Face, bothered. I also “compound split infinitives”. So!

Billy Fish.

I read with sadness the other day that a member of one of the oldest families in Manchester Billy Fish, was sent down for yet another gaol term, this time he received four years for burglary. Apparently he broke in to a coppers house in the early hours, filled his burglary bag with everything valuable he could find, then discovered a Sony X-box near the TV. He had always wanted a Sony X-box. The smooth, sleek feel of the handset felt good, the graphics were superb, and the loud zapping sounds as he bumped of aliens gave him a feeling of power. He should have waited until his nights work was done and the safety of his home before playing on it though. The pops, bangs, and whooshes coming from the telly plus his excited cries of “Have it you bastard” woke the copper up and he duly read him his rights.

You might have no sympathy for such a villain, but a life of crime was always on the cards for Billy, who incidentally came from a long line of Billy’s stretching back to well before the first war. His dad was called Billy, and his Dad before him, in fact the first Billy of any note was his great grand dad who is reputed to have introduced spring clothes pegs to Lancashire in the early nineteenth century. He was very well thought of in washing circles until it was discovered that he had stolen the idea from a Gypsy woman who he married in order to keep her mouth shut. But she was a strong willed girl and set up on her own selling pegs house to house. She undercut her husband, but then don’t all wives. The result of this unhappy affair was that he had her incarcerated in a lunatic asylum just outside of Salford.

He came to a sad end himself after a very nasty accident demonstrating a turnip peeler he had invented to a group of interested housewives at the Great Exhibition of 1851. There was to be an inquiry but the place burnt to the ground before they could inspect the peeler, rumour was he had nicked that idea too.

His oldest son Billy started work as a delivery boy for the co-op and had great expectations of rising through the ranks. After showing great promise he was promoted to biscuit sorter, then became a butter cutter and was well on his way to becoming manager of his own branch until it was discovered that he had been forging dividend tickets to line his own pocket. After a spell breaking rocks he settled in Glossop and eventually found work at a dye works as a vat stirrer. Though he died fairly young he was described as a colourful character by his workmates and the best dad in the world by his oldest son Billy.

Billy Fish the third was in and out of trouble all his life, but his father wanted him to learn a trade and as soon as he left school Billy was indentured as a trainee rivet thrower at the great Beyer Peacocks engineering factory in Gorton Manchester. He made good progress, learned quickly, by the time he was twenty one had risen to the dizzy ranks of riveter. He made good wages for the day and spent a great deal of his money on sharp suits and shoes, which endeared him to the ladies. Sadly for Billy his dandy days were over when some bright spark invented the electric welding set. Riveting was a thing of the past and nothing turns a girls head like bright lights and welding goggles.

With the outbreak of the Great War Billy saw a chance to redeem the family name; he tried to join one of the pal’s regiments but was turned down because of rickets. He argued with the recruiting sergeant that his bow legs weren’t that bowed, but the sergeant wouldn’t have any of it and told him that he could never make a good soldier with his pins, or a goalie for that matter. Billy turned once more to crime; bitter at his failure to enlist he took to raiding the offal works in Longsight late at night with a local hardnut Jimmy the wig. By day they would hock pigs belly and tripe in the taverns or at the local steelworks where black pudding was a great favourite and always in demand. By night he stalked abattoirs and slaughterhouses stealing the innards of cows and sheep.

Soon these establishments of death got wise to Billy’s late night prowlings. On the day that the Treaty of Versailles was signed in 1918, Billy was hung at Strangeways prison for the vicious beating to death (with a sack of pig’s trotters), of a savoury duck roller who had started his shift early.

Billy had never married but had fathered a son to a local harlot called Vinegar Kate. Although Billy would never officially recognise the little boy as his, the family traits were all there, bright red hair, one ear higher than the other and a singular disregard for the results of his actions. When young Billy, (for that surprisingly is what he was called) was warned not to talk to strangers, he immediately went looking for a stranger to talk to. After an all night search he was found shivering and cold tied to a railway line in Trafford Park, by a Badger hunter. Who came across him as he wound his way home after a night of Badger hunting in a neck of the woods that hasn’t seen Badgers since Roman times I believe.

This unfortunate episode scarred Billy for life and was according to psychiatrists the trigger for the anti social, sometimes psychotic behaviour that he displayed throughout his life. He was in and out of institutions after the Badger incident and never spent more than a few months out of gaol. He did at one point look like becoming a model citizen after meeting and falling in love with the delightful Tracy Cumthorp a tyre fitter from Leeds who had settled in Manchester just as the Beatles were wowing the world. They met when Billy took a getaway car that was to be used on a job at the weekend for a tyre to be fitted. He had been given the money for a brand new tyre, but Tracy who was emediately attracted to Billy let him have a part worn for half the price.

He took Tracy to the pictures on the money he had saved and thus began the only good thing in his life. They married and he stayed out of trouble for a while, but the repercussions of buying the part worn tyre came fifteen years after their only child William was born. After returning the getaway car to the gang who were pulling the job, Billy told them he was going straight and wanted nothing more to do with crime. Unfortunately as the gang left the bank they had just robbed and dived into the car the tyre deflated and hampered their getaway. They were all caught, and sent to the big house for twenty years, on the very day that they were released from gaol a special party was held for Billy at the old iron foundry in Beswick. His body was never recovered but it is believed that he suffered unimaginably at the hands of Black Bob a seven foot two iron smelter from Failsworth. Who after shredding Billy's poor body with the tools of his trade, stuck it in a sack and weighted it down with oven dross, before tossing it into the river Medlock.

No one is talking so we will never know, but legend has it that every year at midnight on the anniversary of Billy’s death, his ghost can be seen searching scrap yards for part worn tyres. True or not one thing is sure, the event had a traumatic effect on William the fifth who at the tender age of fifteen on hearing of his fathers disappearance vowed to make society pay for this cruel turn of events.
To this end he committed every crime imaginable at some point or other and although not a very bright lad the fact that he was caught every time made no difference to him at all.

Which is why according to the Manchester evening news he was discovered in the early hours of Saturday morning drinking a can of lager, eating a huge pork pie and playing Alien commander on an X-Box whilst sat in the owner of the house’s favourite chair.

The copper was reported to have said “We don’t go looking for crime, but if it comes our way then God help the bastards”.

Eunice & Roger.

In the nineties I made several trips to hospital with my gall bladder, not that I could have gone without it but I was rather hoping that I might have left without it. One particular visit was due to the migration of several gallstones, which had blocked my pancreatic duct causing inflammation of the pancreas.

I suffered the embarrassing condition of jaundice which turns you bright yellow, makes you smell of iodine and gives your eyes the distinct look of pickled onions (In malt vinegar of course). I was too ill to have the operation to remove the thing on that occasion so the doctors concentrated on making me fit enough for the operation at a later date. *(See Legless and Bloodied.:December)

Actually I was quite ill, all that day I had been in a fever and hallucinating, at one point I was convinced that the house was shaking free of its foundations in an effort to fling itself into outer space, crazy really but infinitely more entertaining than the telly. My ex wife pleaded with me to let her call the doctor, but I would have none of it. I owned a TV and Video shop at the time and was convinced that the fever would pass allowing me to open for business as usual the next morning. How wrong I was, when it was obvious that I was near collapse she phoned the doctor anyway, whom when she arrived took one look at me and phoned for an ambulance.

I don’t remember much about her visit, but apparently I demanded she hand over her bag of tricks so that I would administer succour to myself. When she quite rightly refused I told her to “bang a needle in me woman or get out”. I remember nothing about the trip to hospital or being admitted my next lucid memory was of waking up the next morning in bed on a mixed ward at Manchester general. Which is how I came to meet Eunice and Roger.

Eunice was in the next bed to me and was the first person I spoke to that first morning, my fever had passed, as had my gallstones, but I was still very weak. As I opened my eyes the high ceiling with its suspended lights came slowly into focus and the familiar hospital odour of stale disinfectant, vomit, rotting fruit and lanced boils filled my nostrils.

“You do look a funny colour, do you know you glow in the dark? Even after they turned the lights out I could still read my book by you” Then she laughed, her laugh was infectious, and despite my pain I laughed too. You just had to with Eunice; it was half giggle half guffaw, but very gentile. She was in her late sixties but still a handsome woman and when she laughed or smiled, which was often, the evidence that she had once been a stunningly beautiful woman could be seen even by a blind man.

I discovered that Eunice had been in and out of hospital many times over the preceding three years undergoing several operations that had taken a heavy toll on her body. Despite this she maintained her sense of humour and could manage a joke even when in great pain. I only saw her cry once, not for herself but because a young chap on the other side of the ward had been told he had inoperable cancer.
He was devastated and inconsolable at the news of course, but he put a brave show on for his wife and kids when they visited. After visiting time was over and the quiet night came he could be heard sobbing softly behind his curtains. Eunice spent many long hours in the darkness sat on his bed comforting him, and even on one occasion made him laugh, she was that kind of person, selfless.

She lived in a cottage in Cheshire with her husband Roger, who had been in the airforce, whilst she had been a teacher and attributed her youthful outlook on life to the diverse nature of the thugs she had endeavoured to enlighten down the years. (She did say this with her tongue in her cheek). Once when we were talking about her years teaching she told me that every now and again she came across a child who actually enjoyed learning for learning sake and not as a means to an end, which made it all worth while. She often spoke about those years and when she did her eyes sparkled, she looked wistful and I could tell she was in another time. It was obvious that she missed teaching.

Roger was a tall still handsome man with a handlebar moustache and a military bearing; he made the trip to the hospital twice a day to visit Eunice and was always the first to arrive and the last to leave. They greeted each other as though it had been years since they met, and when it was time to leave the goodbyes were always long and I could see that parting if only for a few hours was a painful experience for them both. They were after many years together still very much in love. It was obvious even to a cynic like myself. He touched her often, would hold her hand and stroke it, gently tracing its contours with his fingers. He would brush her hair for her whilst they chatted and if she fell asleep during a visit as she often did he would sit in the large chair at the side of the bed and look at her. He would hold her hand and sometimes quietly hum a tune as though he were singing a lullaby to an infant.

Because of the nature of my ailment my diet was less than luxurious. Hospital food isn’t up to much at the best of times but the grey stuff that stuck to the plate and refused to succumb to knife, fork or spoon was vile tasting and shot through my system at the speed of light. So I had the only boiled sweet I ever liked sneaked in by my ex. Foxes glacier mints, good for the digestion, make your breath smell fresh and have the edge over other mints not least because they don’t have a hole in the middle, plus they are individually wrapped so its easy to tell if someone else has been sucking them before you. Call me a snob, but I know what I like and although I am not fond of sharing my favourite mints I made an exception in Eunice's case.

I was repaid a hundred fold some weeks after we had both been released from that happy asylum. Eunice and Roger paid me a visit at the shop and plonked a large confectioners bottle of Foxes glacier mints on the counter announcing that they had finally booked a holiday to the one place that Eunice had always wanted to visit, Venice. “When we come back you must come and stay the weekend with us and I will tell you all about Venice” she said excitedly. I told her I would love to, and stay I did, several times. Visiting these two lovely people was a holiday in itself, I was made to feel very at home and although we had only been friends for a short time, it seemed like I had known them a lot longer.

On my last visit Roger and I sat in the garden on a beautiful summer evening drinking Old toms ale and chatting quietly whilst Eunice had a nap. He told me that she was becoming very ill, the doctors felt that there was nothing more that they could do for her, another operation would finish her off so they had suggested a hospice. Eunice and Roger had discussed it but she decided that she wanted to stay at home, that way all the available time they had left would be spent together.

I left the next morning with a parting joke from her, it was the last time I heard her laugh and the last time I saw her alive. As I drove out of the driveway I waved and took one last look in my rear view mirror, the smile had left her face and she was leaning heavily on Rogers arm as he helped her inside.

I had been due to visit again a month or so later, but I received a phone call from Roger politely asking me to leave it for a while longer as Eunice was very ill and not up to visitors. I told him not to worry about it and concentrate on getting her better. I was a hollow suggestion we both knew she didn’t have long to live, but it seemed the right thing to say.

Three days later the phone rang, it was eleven o clock at night and I had just locked the house up ready to go to bed, I could hear Roger sobbing “She has gone, I don’t know what to do, what do I do?” I tried to calm him, he asked if I could possibly come down to the cottage. The drive down took longer than normal because of the conditions, there was a storm raging and the rain made it all but impossible to see. As I drove I tried to think of what I could possibly say that would console him. In the hour and a half that it took me to get there I came up with nothing.

The funeral was poorly attended; they had no relatives to speak of at least none that were talking to them. When I enquired about this he just shook his head. Back at the cottage we sat in silence for a while, every now and again Roger would relate some tale about Eunice and laugh as he remembered, but it was a thin laugh with no conviction. I could tell he was in great pain. Then he told me an extraordinary story.

We were childhood sweethearts, we lived in the same street, went to the same school, grew up together. We were inseparable and miserable when not together. As we grew up and became young adults we knew that we wanted to marry and spend our lives together. But our parents were dead against it, Eunice was packed of to university and I joined the RAF, but we found ways to see each other. When I had leave I would travel to Manchester and stay in a B&B to be near her and when she could she would travel up to the base to be near me. It was like that for years until we finally got a special dispensation to marry.

I was confused but let him carry on. We decided early on that it would be best not to have children, it was a hard decision to make and sometimes I wish we could have had kids, but we had each other and that was the most important thing. I didn’t matter that our families had disowned us as long as we could be together. I told him that I found it hard to imagine that they couldn’t have forgiven them after all these years. They wanted nothing more than to be together, was that such a crime? I asked him.

He looked at me uncertainly and replied, it is if you are cousins and we were. It split our families in two and caused a great deal of pain for them and us. Times were different then, it cast shame on our families, and people were not as tolerant as they are nowadays. None of them came to the wedding and that’s why there were only friends at the funeral today.

I saw Roger on a weekly basis after the day of the funeral, he returned to Venice to scatter Eunices ashes from a bridge and made several trips to Europe. He was lost without his wife, and went rapidly downhill finally succumbing to pneumonia less than a year after she died. He was buried with his beloved wife. There were rather more people at his funeral than at Eunices, relatives in fact. Its amazing how they come out of the woodwork when there is a sniff of money to be had. But they were to be disappointed, there was no money, the cottage had been sold in a deal that let them carry on living there long before Eunice had died. The money paid for their trip to Venice and days out here and there. There was also the conversion to the cottage that helped to make her last months more comfortable.

There had been no formal will as such, just instructions to their solicitor, in any event nobody who had shunned them in life, benefited from them in death. Nearly two years after Rogers death I received a parcel accompanied by a short letter of apology from their solicitor for the delay in delivering a large confectioners bottle of Foxes glacier mints.

Hears to Eunice and Roger who lived a real love story.

Girl Vs Dog.

I was reading some of my old posts yesterday and it seams that the most exciting part of my day is usually the drive in to work in the morning. Today was no exception and it made me think about people’s values and priorities.

I had just filled up with petrol at Manjikes garage and was waiting for a gap in the traffic to join the main road and continue my journey. On the opposite side of the road there were two people who were definitely in panic mode. A woman accompanied by three Dalmatian dogs on leads, and a rather rotund chap wearing a white and orange hooped top (Does my belly look big in this) in charge of two vicious looking Alsations and a tiny terrier type animal with a bow on its furry head.

The terrier had made a break for freedom and was excitedly running in and out of the way of traffic as it progressed in the same direction as the man but at rather greater speed. He was huffing and puffing, shouting after the dog “Primrose, Primrose you bad girl” and waiving his free arm around displaying a very wet armpit.

The traffic was of course slowing down; nobody wanted a tiny terrier with a pink bow stuck to his or her wheel. But once out of the way of the dog the cars carried on their way. As I approached the killing field I dutifully slowed down just as the little bleeder ran into the road again. Watching all this was a woman holding the hand of a delightful little girl with fluffy hair decked out in a splendid summer dress.

She was of course entranced and obviously worried about the little furry animal dicing with death, she did what any entranced child would do, before her mother could stop her she wrenched her hand free and darted into the road to grab the dog.

I was going slowly enough to be able to stop, but the lunatic overtaking me at speed obviously wasn’t, nor could he see past my car and therefore was oblivious to the drama unfolding in the middle of the road.

Your heart is in your mouth now isn’t it, what do you mean no, it should be.

The rotund chap in the garish top had handed the dogs leads to his female companion determined to end this dangerous state of affairs. He saw the little girl run into the traffic, he saw the dog laughing its bollocks of, and he saw the maniac driving at speed bearing down on both. To the tune of chariots of fire he sprinted (Well as fast as a fat bastard can sprint) in front of my car pushing the little girl aside and heroically grabbed the dog out of harms way.

He banged on my car bonnet and glared at me through the windscreen. He was only able to do this because my vehicle was stopped, so how he could lay the blame at my feet I cannot imagine. I got out of the car and grabbed him by the head; I turned his pathetic shaved eyebrowless head toward the little girl who was now thankfully back with her Mother. I can’t remember exactly what it was I screamed at him so I will paraphrase.

“You mindless F**king bastard, you made no attempt to grab that little girl, you F**king pushed past her to get to that F**king poof F**king dog. I should shove the F**king yapping little F**ker up your F**king fat arse.

I can be quite colourful when I want, the little girl thought so too, she turned to her mum and declared “That rather good looking chap in the smart fashionable suit who looks not unlike George Clooney is swearing mummy”. Ok so that last bit was a lie, but she had noticed my language and was informing her mum, however mum was already on her way to where fat bastard and I were stood. Not to admonish me for my expletives but to land a hefty slap to the side of fat bastards head.

I cant say I blame her, in his misguided attempt at saving the dog rather than the human being he had knocked said human being over, therefore doing more damage than probably any car could have done.
As she continued to berate him for his arse upward priorities I returned to my car and carried on my journey. It just shows you how pathetic some people can be when it comes to animals. I like animals but if the choice is man or dog, man wins every time.

The producers of this blog would like to inform you than no animals or children were harmed during the writing of this post.

Well. well, well.

So, spring onions are so called because of the time of the year at which they appear and not for their ability to regain their original shape after being stepped on. You learn something new every day.

Road to hell.

I was a little fed up last night for no particular reason; sleep evaded me so I decided to go for a drive.
It was around three-o clock in the morning that I found myself on the outskirts of Manchester wondering why I had bothered. Not for me the solitude and tranquillity of that chap in the advert on TV who goes for a night drive whilst Richard Burton charms him with his silken voice banging on about plumbers, hotel porters and various tradesmen sleeping happily whilst he enjoys the pleasure of an uncluttered road.

One thing for sure they didn’t film that in Manchester. Gone are the days when everything stopped at midnight. Time was if you were seen on the streets after this time the police would stop you and enquirers would be made as to what it was you were up to. No, these days go down any street in Manchester at four in the morning and it will be like a Saturday afternoon in the city centre.

Its not just late revellers winding their way home either, I saw a young woman with a baby in a pushchair dragging a toddler along. Further along the same road I narrowly avoided running down a couple of pensioners struggling with a huge potted plant who without looking suddenly decided to cross the road after walking seven or eight yards past a pelican crossing.

During the hour and a half that I was out I saw three hitchhikers, one of whom was a young woman who should have known better than place herself in that situation. There were various groups of youths (I hesitate to say gangs) lolling around, some looking I thought very suspicious. I lost count of the cars driving about with headlights and rear lights extinguished, and there was one very dodgy looking geezer carrying a hold all who kept furtively looking over his shoulder as he stopped at various buildings and shops giving them the once over.

Far from it being a pleasant lonely drive in deserted streets with time to reflect on the meaning of life. It was more reminiscent of the taxi drive that Kurt Russell took with Ernest Borgnine in “Escape from New York”. Still there was one or two quiet moments, notably the time I spent warming the car up before I left the house, and the time I spent allowing the car to settle after I arrived back home (Twin turbo, you have to be gentle with these beasts).

My drive in to work this morning was only marginally more dangerous than last nights adventure. The time I spent waiting behind wheelie bin collecting lorries or crawling along behind those annoying little flea like vehicles that sweep the streets nowadays made me wonder why common sense doesn’t prevail. In most states of the Americas this kind of public function is performed after midnight when there are less people about. But then most people in this country would want a small fortune in unsociable hours pay to even think about it.

Sylvias knickers.

Sylvia was a girl who sat opposite me in junior school; she was pretty with braided blonde hair and she had a haughtiness about her even at the tender age of eight. Her parents were Scandinavian and were always travelling somewhere or other, at any rate they weren’t seen very often. She endured my school only for as long as it took her parents to find somewhere more academically suited to her higher social class. I suppose all us kids came from the wrong side of the tracks to them, trouble was both sides of the tracks in Gorton was the wrong side.

Be that as it may, we were a happy band of ragamuffins ever ready to help each other for a price. That’s not as mercantile as it sounds, I’m talking sweets, marbles, a ball maybe or a catapult, all the usual junk that you might find in a kids pocket were bartering capital to get what you wanted. Some of us were more adept at this than others. One such chap was Billy Wrexham; he looked like the kid out of the Lassie films, was a great favourite with the girls and could charm the birds from the trees.

I was very fond of looking at girls knickers in those days, I still am only nowadays I don’t lie on the floor pretending to have tripped in order to look up girls skirts. Even as a kid I knew that there was more to girls than skipping and giggling, and that they would play an important part in my future. But for the time being I was content to admire and continue to take the skin of my knees playing my childish game.

For some reason I was besotted with Sylvia, whose aloofness only served to drive me to distraction, she wouldn’t speak to me and barely looked my way. But she was all over Billy bloody Wrexham, who made it obvious that he wanted nothing at all to do with her. So I formed a plan, Billy told me that she kept trying to kiss him, he would brush her aside of course and run away smartish, but she persisted. Now Billy had admired my football boots, and why not? They had been endorsed by Stanley Mathews the greatest footballer of the day.

I offered Billy a deal, all he had to do was kiss Sylvia in exchange for a look at her knickers, I would give him the boots, he would relate the experience to me and everybody would be happy. Sylvia would get her kiss, Billy would get the boots and I would find out (all be it by proxy) what her knickers looked like. This all sounds pervy I know but I was only a kid and second hand information was better than none I reasoned.

Billy put the proposition to Sylvia who told him that in addition to the kiss she would require some chocolate, she was fond of chocolate. So now I had to find some chocolate, Billy certainly wasn’t going to stump up a bar of five boys (Sylvias favourite chocolate bar) even Stanley Mathews boots weren’t worth that, and a kiss. The exchange was set for the next day after school, I had to think fast and I did; however I didn’t think sensibly.

I paid a visit to my cousins house in the next street, whilst there I knicked her skipping rope and then left to look for someone fool enough to swap them for the price of a bar of chocolate. A fool was soon found (Girlie Pete) and the chocolate along with my precious boots was stored in my school satchel ready for the next day.

Right about now your thinking the plonker is getting in deeper and deeper, and you would be right, this was just a taste of what lay in store for me later in life. Women equals trouble always has for me and I suppose as long as I breathe always will. The next day in school my eyes were never of the clock. It had become something more than just a means to an end. I wasn’t quite sure what I was going to do with the information when I got it, but it was important that I got it.

The school bell went at four-o clock and everyone rushed out of the gates to go home, Billy and I hung back and I gave him the currency to complete his mission. We were to meet later near the church on Gorton lane where he would relate what he had seen. I stood there for some considerable time. He didn’t show. Eventually I dragged myself home. There waiting for me was three sets of irate parents, there had been five sets of irate parents, but Billy and Sylvias Mum and Dad had left earlier after reading the riot act to my parents about what their children had been up to at my behest.

I received the first clip round the earhole from my aunt whose daughter I had stolen the skipping ropes from, my cousin seemed to take great enjoyment from this, I suppose I couldn’t blame her.

The second clip my quickly reddening earhole received was from the mother of Girlie Pete who had given me the money for the chocolate in exchange for the stolen skipping ropes, and who now had to give them back. He smirked as the blow landed. (I made a mental note to beat the shit out of him at the first opportunity)

The third and forth clips were delivered to my beleaguered earhole by my Mother and Father respectively. I was just glad that I had got there after Sylvia and Billy’s parents had gone otherwise I would have been forced to change earholes. I was given the bollocking of a lifetime, sent to bed and threatened with fifty years confinement to the house and no spends.

I lay in bed that night earholes throbbing like mad and thought well at least tomorrow I will get to find out from Billy what Sylvias knickers looked like. I approached Billy during the first playtime break and said in an expectant voice “Well, what was they like”. He carried on nonchalantly probing his conk and said “nufink special”. I growled at him “Waddaya mean nufink special” satisfied that his nose was empty he stopped picking “they were boring, just white and no pockets, cant have anyfink good in em wiv no pockets, so I didn’t look any more”.

I was devastated, incredulous, flabbergasted, you bloody fool I thought, nufink bloody good in em cos they had no bloody pockets. All the frustration and anger at the loss of my boots, the cauliflowering of my ears and my fifty year house arrest burst from me and I launched myself at this nose picking dimwit. It took two teachers to drag me off him, both of whom were shocked and surprised at the behaviour of a normally quiet and respectful boy like me.

I still mourn the loss of my boots and for some considerable time I continued to wonder what exactly it was Billy had seen that day. I was cured of the latter many years later after being stopped at the door of a night-club by a huge female bouncer who enquired as to my name. When I told her she said “Hiya Dave its me, Sylvia, I remember you from school” I nodded politely and entered the club. As I passed she called after me “See yer inside for a drink later” I thought oh God I hope not, she might offer to show me her knickers.

Spinning Bob.

One hot summer day after finding the park packed to the brim with kids and all the swings and roundabouts occupied with a queue as long as your arm waiting their turn, my little gang decided to do a spot of Mig jumping. When I say gang I don’t mean as in a group of young thugs with ouzies dealing drugs and committing drive byes, we were only around seven or eight years old. No, in those days it was little more than a group of bored kids from the same street whom always pal’d out together. We did have a name though, “The Black Hand Gang” there was a serial on the radio at the time and so we called ourselves after the gang in that. The problem was that every street with a little gang did the same thing, it was a popular program. I’m sure in these days of police intelligence (Now there’s a contradiction in terms) their inside information would lead them to believe we were legion and ready to take over the streets.

Hardly that, we were just looking to have fun in the summer break. The gang consisted of my brother, Turnip, Silly Sid, Spinning Bob, and myself. Turnip was my best pal and was so called because of his very ruddy complexion. Two thirds of his face was the colour of beetroot, and his hair wild at the best of times, frequently formed a tuft on top of his head much like a coconut. Wearing a school cap was impossible for Turnip; any attempt would look like a plate spinning on a stick. Until his Mother came up with the idea of sewing a chin strap onto his cap, Turnip was impressed with this and used to wear the strap just under his bottom lip like policemen did with their pointy helmets. Sometimes we would turn our school caps back to front, especially when playing at fighter pilots; this would of course give us a streamlined look and enhance the pretend factor immensely. This manoeuvre was impossible for Turnip because of the chinstrap, when he did attempt it the strap would have to be positioned behind his ears which pushed them out and made him look like Dopey, one of the seven dwarfs.

Silly Sid was as I have mentioned in another post a collector of nails and screws, what he didn’t know about nails and screws wasn’t worth knowing. He was also our armourer; Sid was good at making guns out of bits of wood, but his forte was bows and arrows. He would sit for hours in his dad’s shed, tongue licking his lips furiously in concentration as he designed yet another super bow or arrow.

Spinning Bob derived his name from the fact that he rarely walked anywhere, at least as you or I would walk. He was incapable of walking in a straight line because of his compulsion to spin. When it started nobody knew, but spin he would, sometimes quite fast. He had that trick that ballet dancers use when pirouetting of keeping his head still until the last second of the spin and then whipping it round ready for the next turn. You mustn’t think that his spin was in any way sissy or arty farty because I used the word pirouette. Bob was a boys boy for sure and his spin was very masculine, the determined look on his face, his clenched fists and the sparks that flew from his hobnailed clogs as he spun about his business, left you in no doubt that Spinning Bob was in no way girlie.

His Mum and Dad despaired of him, going to the shops with a spinning kid wasn’t that much of a problem, nor was his trip to and from school. But family and social occasions could be a bit of a bind, trying to explain to people why your child behaved like a Whirling Dervish must have been irksome for them.

I asked him once why it was he spun, he said he didn’t really know, but whilst he was spinning he felt safe and that everything was correct. When sat down he behaved like any other kid, fidgety, yes, restless, yes, when sat or prone the need to spin disappeared, But the moment his feet were supporting his body he felt the overwhelming compulsion to revolve at sometimes quite alarming speed.

So that day my happy band of little pals decided to go Migging, or Mig jumping. A Mig was a small three-wheel vehicle with a pointy front and one headlight that despite its size could pull some considerable weight. They were used to pull huge trailers that carried sacks of maize and flower from the mill at the top of our street to where I do not know. But for the short journey down the street and up to the main road they travelled very slowly, we would take advantage of this by running alongside and hopping on to the trailer, then hop of just before it reached Gorton baths. Then we would go back and wait for another one to pass and repeat the exercise, much to the consternation of the driver.

Despite being warned by mill owner, Drivers and our parents that this was dangerous, we ignored their advice and thought it great fun. That was until this particular day when the local park was choca block, and we had nothing to do. We had all jumped several migs successfully, all but Spinning Bob who thought spinning more important than our game. However as the last Mig of the day left the mill on its way to who knows where, Bob decided to have a go.
The Mig turned out of the mill and crept slowly down the street, as we prepared to jump it Spinning Bob whizzed past us spinning furiously. He adjusted his speed to that of the Mig and for a second I wondered how he could possibly haul himself onto the trailer whilst in the middle of a major spin. Then suddenly he stopped spinning; his momentum with nowhere to dissipate itself projected his spun wracked little body under the wheels of the trailer. There was a sickening crack as his leg broke in two places. The Mig driver stopped and raced out of his cab, we all went over to Bob to try and help. Bob just sat up and looked at his leg with a strange grin on his very white face.

We were all in trouble of course, all our parents had a meeting to decide what to do, but that didn’t matter really, we were more bothered about our pal who had been taken to hospital. I didn’t sleep much that night, my brother and I had been sent to bed after a stern telling off. I cried for my pal whom I thought was going to die, every time I closed my eyes I could see him spinning towards the Mig, and hear that awful crack of broken bone over and over again.

As he sat grinning at his broken leg that afternoon something strange had happened. The fact that his leg was turned backward on itself and legs that point in different directions are not usually conducive to good spinning was second to the fact that an event deep within his brain had triggered something that completely wiped out his compulsion to spin.

He made a complete recovery but spent the rest of the summer holidays in a wheelchair with a cast on his leg. He told me he didn’t remember the accident, he also told me that he knew he used to spin, but couldn’t remember why he did it. His parents were happy his spinning days were over, I think he was happy he didn’t get any more flack for revolving at speed whenever the fancy took him. But I missed Spinning Bob, it was just another constant in an ever changing world that was cruelly dragged from my comfort zone kicking and screaming and helped hasten my race toward adulthood.

Ahhh Well.

Why don't good guys ever win.

F**k it why bother.

The main Asda in Bradford opposite the Manchester stadium is a truly wonderful place; It’s where I do my shopping every two weeks. This morning was shop day, most visits I call at the café for a drink and something to eat, but not any more. Cold coffee, toast only done on one side, dirty cutlery, meals that look nothing like the adverts for their food, indifferent (Fat) staff, small portions (Which is probably why the staff are fat) and an inability to take any constructive criticism.

And how could I not mention Asdas tendency to allow nasally challenged, stuttering Yugoslavian rap artists speaking at the speed of light to make announcements over the tannoy.

There, I think that’s it.

Frustration.

Kerry came round yesterday for a couple of hours, refusing to join my Daughter and I for Sunday dinner because she is on a health kick at the moment, dieting, using her running machine and going swimming twice a week. She looks good too; slim, curvy and tanned she has taken to wearing quite revealing clothes. Nothing ostentatious of course she has more style than that, but certainly the kind of feminine come hither with a faint promise of something more kind of apparel.

The fact that she kept sticking her arse in my face and shaking it at every available opportunity didn’t help. The woman is a tease and whilst it was just a bit of fun, it was both pleasant and frustrating. She had had her hair done too and it did look very nice, her new colour and hairstyle suited her and normally I would have commented on how nice she looked (I’m like that) but I abstained on principle.

She was flirting and driving me round the bend on purpose knowing full well that I was powerless to do anything about it. Not that I would of course, I am always a gentleman, but there was a great deal of gnashing of teeth and uncomfortable shifting around in my chair. I am trying to think of a good way to get her back, but so far have come up with nothing. Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated.

The day before yesterday I was behind a police car for about a mile, during which time he drove erratically, had to break hard because he was too close to the car in front and made several turns without using his indicators, and he wasn’t chasing anybody! This morning on the way in I was rounding a bend when one of those huge police incident vans came at me from the other direction on my side of the road. The driver was steering with one hand whilst talking on his police radio which he held in his other hand. The policeman in the passenger seat had his feet up on the dash and was smoking a fag. Definitely a case of one rule for us, whatever rules they want for them.

Keep it to yourself.

A friend called round the other night for a drink and sympathy, she got the drink but very little sympathy. Its not that I don’t care, I do, but we have these conversations at least once a month.
And its beginning to wear a little thin, she will sit there sometimes crying, sometimes just angry and relate yet another tale of woe from her catalogue of sexual adventures that she considers to be genuine relationships.

For some reason she is convinced that granting sexual favour to any bloke she encounters will guarantee her a long and lasting meaningful relationship. Despite my educating her to the ways of men and despite pointing out that she has been disappointed time after time, she insists on doing it her way.
Now this would be fine if she were to realise that a booty call is just that, a booty call. And if she must invite men home after a night out clubbing then expect no more than a kiss on the cheek before he goes through the door in the morning.

“Men are all bastards” she wailed. “I phoned that Kevin up at work and when I told him it was Sandra, he said Sandra who and he had only left that morning, The bastard“ I told her that women could be bastards too, being a bastard is not gender specific. We are all capable of behaving badly given the opportunity and the excuse, and inviting someone home for a night of sex does just that. It couldn’t be plainer, your not saying, “Get to know me, come to like me” and perhaps take the relationship further. Your saying “Lets go to my place for a bonk”.

I don’t think she really listens, her latest escapade involved a night out where she met Kevin and after a few drinks and a totter round the dance floor they made their way post haste to her house. The inevitable of course happened and whilst she was still lighting a post coitial fag he was having it on his toes through the door, “Which he didn’t even shut” she complained.

I do have sympathy for her, I really do, she is a nice person, has a great personality apart from her promiscuity (Who am I to judge) and is a very pretty some might say desirable woman. But when she ignores advise by people to be a little less outgoing shall we say, and allow a relationship to develop before trusting her virtue (What there is left of it) to a man, she still she makes the same mistake over and over again.

She calmed down a bit, wiped her eyes and took a sip from her drink, “I need a hug” she simpered. I moved across and gave her a hug, “Why can’t the guys I meet be more like you?” she said. I freed myself from the hug and returned to my seat, “Perhaps if you were to actually look for someone with the qualities that you find attractive, rather than just going for the nearest bloke, you might have more luck” I said a little desperately. I say desperately because I knew what was coming next, and she didn’t disappoint me.

“I don’t want to go home, can I stay the night” she bit her lip. I hate it when women do that, my resolve melts, but this time I managed to fight it. “Yes you can stay, as long as you don’t mind sleeping on the couch” She wasn’t happy, I could tell, but it would hardly have been right to take advantage of the situation especially after reading the sexual riot act to her.

When I woke up next morning I decided to make us both a hearty breakfast, take the day of and treat her to a ride out into the country. We could have a meal at a country pub and perhaps I could explain things to her in a gentler way than I had the night before. But she was gone and the bitch left the door open.

Changes.

Little Mark isn’t so little anymore; he plays first flute in the school orchestra. He is something of an artist too he sketches and paints at every opportunity; he has a great eye for form. Scot is also a budding musician, he plays the clarinet in the same orchestra as Mark, and when he isn’t practising you can always find him kicking a football. Sweet little Kelsey loves Fairies, Princesses and all things pink. She has a special drawer where her most precious possessions are kept. This weekend after much crying she was finally persuaded to consign the pink top that Calalin had sent her, to her special drawer; she has grown out of it. All things change little girl.

Brave little soldier.

When I was a kid I lived in Roseberry Street in the heart of Gorton, life was simple, you ate, you slept, and you played. Winters were spent round a roaring fire in the hearth planing for Christmas, and the summer was a time to play with your friends. Dodging Migs* from the mill at the top of our street, drenching each other with the hosepipe they used to swill out the mill yard, exploring strange new places or just playing like the clappers in the hot sun as kids do.

Making throwing darts from lollypop sticks; nails and black pitch from the roadside was a popular pastime for boys. Girls of course did sissy things like reciting silly rhymes whilst jumping in and out of skipping ropes or playing hopscotch. I would occasionally sit on the kerbside pretending to be interested in what the girls were doing but it was just an excuse really to catch a glimpse of knickers so that I could tell the other boys what colour they were. There was a little song that went with this pastime; I can’t remember it now but if anyone knows how it went please comment.

Making throwing darts was an art; first you had to plead with your mum for the money to buy a penny ice-lolly so that you could use the stick. As I said darts were popular and the sticks were at a premium in and around my street. If you found one abandoned in the gutter you were lucky. For flights the more dextrous of us would use pigeon feathers, the more kack handed used the cardboard from a cigarette packet. A suitable nail, not to big, not too small could be acquired from silly Sid who had a huge collection of nails (Don’t ask me why) he had an equally large collection of screws too, and without missing a beat could reel of information about any screw on the planet. The last and most important item was pitch (Road tar) this ingredient held everything together and was also the means by which the dart was weighted correctly.

The pointy end was pretty simple, just a nail held there by pitch not too much though or it wouldn’t set, later more pitch would be added to balance the dart. The flights were a little trickier; the stick would have to be carefully slit along the length for about and inch. Then a blob of pitch each side was allowed to set so that the stick wouldn’t split any further. The pigeon feathers were cut to size and weaved together at right angles, then carefully slid onto the stick, after which a blob of pitch to seal the end was added and allowed to set.

Flight feathers were trimmed, more pitch was added to balance it and the dart was ready for its maiden flight. The park was our favourite test pilot area because the ground was soft and wouldn’t damage the dart too much. However the parky* who rarely left his little room attached to the summer shed (See storm) would be out like a shot chasing us off at the slightest hint of airborne activity. So most of the time we were relegated to the croft at the back of our house. The ground was well worn and hard there from years of kids using it as a playground.

One Saturday morning found Geoff from across the road, my best pal Turnip and my brother and I gathering all the components to make darts. The best pitch to be had was from Crossly Street so after acquiring a goodly supply (Most of it stuck to our clothes) we all set about the ancient art of dart making. All that is except Geoff, who couldn’t make a dart to save his life, He wouldn’t admit that though, instead he would forage for pieces of slate that he claimed could be thrown further than darts and were more accurate. I offered to make him one, but he told me to shove it, “My slate will beat your darts anyday” we were about to find out.

We erected a target at the end of the croft and took turns trying to hit it, my Brother, Turnip and I with our darts and Geaff with his collection of slates. We were all getting near the target except for Geoff whose slate missiles curved through the air like Frisbees and went in whatever direction they pleased. It was my turn to throw again, my beautifully made dart sailed high into the air then gracefully arced downward on its way to a direct hit on the target. I threw my arms into the air and shouted a triumphant “Yeeeeeeessss” as it hit the target bang in the centre. To the shouts of “easy, easy, easy” I ran to retrieve it and as I bent down to pull it out. I felt a stinging pain above my left eye, everything started to spin and I became dizzy.

Everyone became quiet as I stood there with my hand on my forehead, blood oozing through my fingers and running down my arm. Geoff in exasperation had thrown a slate, which had buried itself in my forehead. I pulled it out and ran home as fast as I could. Meanwhile the others were hastily getting rid of the evidence, whilst Geoff began to scream like a banshee imploring God not to punish him for killing me.

My Dad wrapped a towel round my head and took me to the family doctor a few streets away, he told me that I looked like an Indian wearing a turban. Indians wearing turbans were a bit thin on the ground in those days so I asked him what they were. This gave him the chance to reminisce about his army days spent in Deli in India with the Lancashire Fusiliers, “Six VC’s* before breakfast son” was one of his favourite sayings when he got on to that subject.

The surgery was empty when we arrived so I was soon sat on the doctor’s table having my wound prodded and cleaned, which smarted a great deal. “Hmmm looks pretty nasty that” the doctor prodded my head some more. “It’s going to need a stitch,” he said. “Trouble is, don’t have any anesthetic around at the moment” He prodded my head again, “So you can either take him up to the hospital or I can do it here without, Might hurt a tad”.

I knew what hurt meant, that was scary enough but what the hell did tad mean. My dad looked at me and asked, “What do you think lad, here or the hospital” they both waited silently for me to speak. What should I do? drag my dad all the way to the hospital or brave the pain of one measly little stitch. After listening to my dad extolling the bravery of the Lancashire Fusiliers and their six bleeding VC’s before breakfast there was little choice.

The doctor brought out his bag of spanners and told me to make myself comfortable, I shifted position on the table lining my foot up with the his groin, if I was going down I was going take him with me. I felt a sharp pain as the needle went in and an even sharper pain as it came out the other side. I was just about to make contact with his wedding tackle when the meaning of tad was brought home to me. The needle was nothing compared to the excruciating rhythms of agony I endured whilst he practised tying bloody sailors knots with my forehead. There was a quick flash of scissors as he cut the ends of the stitch and before I could stick the boot in he was at the sink washing his hands.

The doctor sensibly dried his hands well out of range and said “Bring him back in a week and I’ll take it out” My dad looked at me and nodded his head in the direction of the doctor “Well, what do you say”
I begrudgingly thanked him for putting me through hell and slouched out of the surgery. As I neared the door the doctor said “Oh I almost forgot, I have something for brave boys like you” he rummaged around in his drawer and brought out a bag of liquorice allsorts, “There you go son, well done”.

Apparently Geoff told his parents that he had thrown the slate at a bee that was about to attack me, quite why he thought he could hit a bee in flight when he couldn’t even get near a target approximately five million times larger that a bee escapes me. But then he was prone to exaggeration, in any event he was deemed a hero by his doting parents for trying to save my life. I remember thinking at the time that if the shit ever did hit the fan it would be a blessing if that lying little bugger wasn’t around to help.

I was proud of my stitch, for me it was as well earned as any Victoria Cross, for some reason the rest of that week I limped, a limp seemed to go well with a head wound so I used it to good effect. The only down side was the knot the Doctor had tied in it. As I said before he had been a trifle overzealous with this and consequently my eyebrow had been pulled up giving me a quizzical look which the girls seemed to rather like, so much so I have used it ever since.

And I did get a bag of liquorice allsorts for my trouble.

* Migs: Small three wheel vehicles used to carry sacks of flower.
* VC Victoria Cross, highest award given to a soldier for bravery. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lancashire_Fusiliers