Tooth & Nail,

I need to go to the dentist, I’m overdue anyway, but the last few days one of my back teeth has been giving me gyp and like most people I hate dentists. Actually it only hurts when I eat, drink, sit, stand, walk, laugh, sneeze, cough, fart, drive, or sleep so I suppose I could leave it a little longer, until it gets really bad.

My dentist is a woman and although I am proud to say that there isn’t a male chauvinist bone in my body. That I genuinely support a fair across the board gender assignment to lifeboats, and am a firm supporter of equal pay for both sexes doing the same job (As long as I the man gets the same rate for less hours of course). I was a little perturbed when a couple of years ago I arrived for an appointment to discover that my trusty, well scrubbed, knowledgeable, hairy armed stand up male dentist had been replaced by a woman.

The receptionist brought me up to speed with a big cheesy smile on her smart arse face, but her eyes narrow and shifty told a different story, they were, defiant, and confrontational. She treated every patient who walked through the door as an unnecessary inconvenience to her working day. Which mainly consisted of berating the poor, pain ridden buggers for being fifteen seconds late. Bullying them into buying that latest toothbrush and toothpaste on the market, which surprise, surprise they just happened to stock and talking endlessly on the phone to her pal Sonya who worked in the cake shop next door.

I made the mistake of challenging her sarcastic nasty attitude once, when after introducing myself she asked me (Without taking the phone away from her ear or looking at me) “Is your appointment necessary or urgent”. Up until that point I had had a bad day, so I wasn’t in the mood for her bile. I leaned across the counter and replied “Not really, I have a morning free so I thought why not dive into the dentists and subject myself to half an hour excruciating pain”. She didn’t see the funny side of it, and asked me to leave. I ignored her, found myself a magazine and sat down.

There were several people in the waiting area who on hearing this exchange stopped pretending to be interested in the Readers digest and waited mouths open for what would happen next. The receptionist marched out of reception, then a minute later marched back in, arms folded across her chest trailing the dentist with her. She unfolded her arms and pointed menacingly at me barking, “That’s him”. Those sat on either side of me worriedly placed more space between themselves and the accused, not wishing to be associated with, or befall the same fate that awaited him.

The dentist approached me, and said firmly “We have every right to refuse treatment to and eject any patient who is abusive to the staff and disrupts the surgery, could you leave please”. I looked up from my magazine and replied “And I have every right to be treated with civility and respect by your receptionist, and not be subjected to her sarcastic and insulting attitude because my appointment, which incidentally I pay good money for, interferes with her social life”.

From behind the dentist she screamed “You bloody liar, he’s a bleeding liar, I treat them all the same”. I looked the harridan in the eye and said “Yes you do, you treat us all like shit” I turned to the dentist “Ask anyone here, she puts everyone through the third degree”. I turned to the other brow beaten sods for some support, they had been listening intently up to this point, but my request fell on deaf ears, all of them save a little old lady turned back to their magazines and ignored my plea for assistance.

Why the little old lady was there I cannot imagine, she couldn’t have had any teeth at her age, but I am glad she was because she alone had the guts to stand up and be counted. She pointed her bright yellow and red umbrella at the smug faced receptionist and spoke. “She is very nasty and very rude to everyone, there is no need for it. It costs nothing to be nice, she said I was a time waster” the old lady pointed to a woman who had a child with her, “She told this lady to keep her little boy quiet because she was on the phone, and he was just playing”.

The receptionist’s face had turned bright red, the dentist who was no idiot could see that things were at an impasse. He turned to the now fuming receptionist and holding her by the arm as he led her out of the room suggested she go to the staff room, make a cup of tea and calm down. I was ready to leave as asked satisfied that although I had lost my appointment and would probably be struck off their list, had a least derived some satisfaction from bringing another of life’s tosser's to book.

The dentist asked me to follow him into another room, and there to my surprise apologised for his errant member of staff requesting that I wait there and that somebody would attend to me shortly. I sat alone confused and paranoid, thinking this was just a ploy to keep me here whilst he phoned the police to have me arrested. I imagined I would be dragged to a police van desperately trying to put my side of the story saying “If you don’t believe me ask the little old lady” Only to find that my only reliable witness had been spirited away by orthodontic men in black.

I needn’t have worried, before long a pleasant, very pretty and full bosomed young blonde girl opened the door, smiled sweetly and asked me to follow her into the dentist dungeon. I was happy to comply, she had (Apart from the full bosom) a well proportioned and quite wiggley behind that any man would be glad to follow. My dental needs were met as though the earlier altercation had not taken place, and I left without seeing the smart arse receptionist again that day.

And so it was as I stood in front of my former adversary trying to be as pleasant as I could, she informed me that I would henceforth have my mouth serviced by a new dentist, a female dentist, in short a woman for all teeth. Was I worried, Naaahhhh, women are gentler than men, they have more empathy and can relate better to the patients fear of pain. I wasn’t doing a very good job of convincing myself that all would be well, partly because I had had a bad experience with a female dentist when I was about ten years old.

It happened at Manchester dental hospital when I attended to have a simple half crown fitted. She was a student, inexperienced and nervous, I know because she told me. As her shaking hand came nearer to my mouth she looked down to where her foot was controlling the pedal that worked the drill thingy. The next thing I knew I was in hospital having my bottom jaw replaced with a plastic one, and undergoing several skin grafts to cosmetically rebuild my face.

Ok so that last part was a big lie, but the pain she put me through was traumatic. My new dentist turned out to be very capable indeed and is truly professional. One of the good things about opening your mouth for this lady is that she has a habit of leaving the top three buttons of her splendid white tunic open. This allows you an unfettered view of her breasts (Well the top half at least) and is I can assure you every bit as efficient at relieving pain as Novocain.

I think I will ring up for an appointment now.

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Triumphs and disasters part 2

Some months after Lesley had deserted me for the burger flipper I found myself travelling down to Great Yarmouth to set up and open another track for Karting2000. The place was a mess and needed a great deal of work if it was to be ready for the holiday season. Several of us found ourselves living twenty-four seven at the track. We started work at seven in the morning and didn’t finish until well gone twelve most nights. For a good deal of the time we were there we ate and slept in what was to be the main office. There was really no point in finding a hotel at that time, the track was some way away from civilisation near the harbour mouth and commuting would have cost us precious time.

One night the lads went out to a club on the promenade and I was left to my own devices. I did some paperwork until around eleven, had a last walk around the track to make sure everything was secure, then made my way across the sea road to the beach for some night air. Walking along the beach at night is a little precarious in Great Yarmouth because of the huge amount of dog crap that lies hidden in the sand like land mines waiting for you to step on it. The only thing worse than a shoe full of dog crap is a shoe full of sandy dog crap. Although when the moon is full its delicate light makes the crap sparkle and shine like glitter. It must be the phosphorous or the seashells.

I sat in the sand my back against a large concrete wall that had once been part of a holiday caravan camp that two summers before had blown into the sea during a bad storm; Yarmouth is noted for having some bad tornadoes out at sea that sometimes come inland. That year the camp was decimated by a particularly fearce one and it never recovered. It was quite eerie sitting alone in the dark listening to the wind blowing through the abandoned buildings and the sound of the sea crashing into the shore; they seemed to fight with each other for your attention.

This particular night it was another sound that caught my attention, from behind me on the beach road I heard the sound of two people arguing. A man was shouting abusively at a woman and she kept pushing him off as he persisted in grabbing at her. Thinking to leave them to it I stood up to make my way back to the track. I had only walked a few yards when I heard the woman scream; I turned around in time to see him punch her in the head. She hit the floor heavily, then he stood on her leg so that she couldn’t move and began taunting her. She was crying and obviously in great pain as he put more and more weight on her leg.

I couldn’t avoid interfering now he had gone too far. I shouted at him to stop what he was doing and leave her alone. As I ran over to them he gave me the finger and told me to mind my own f*****g business. Being a Manchester lad and therefore not overly fond of pillocks or bullies I introduced his nose to my forehead at some speed. The result of this exchange apart from the look of surprise that spread across his face was that his nose joined his expression. What a team they made as he slumped to the floor clutching his rapidly expanding conk.

As he lay rolling around on the floor crying and holding his busted hooter (The mard bastard) I helped the woman to her feet and suggested she should get as far away as possible. She asked me if I would walk some way with her, as she was afraid that he would follow. I agreed and as we walked I noticed that she had a nasty looking bruise on her face and an even nastier cut on her leg. She told me she wanted a taxi and asked if there was a phone box nearby. I told her the nearest was a good way along the front, but that she could use the one at the track, it was nearer.

As she sat in the office waiting for her ride I produced the first aid box and helped her tend to her wounds. The cut on her leg was bad though it didn’t look like it needed stitches but the blow to her head had done some damage, her lip was cut and swollen and her eye would definitely change colour before morning. I didn’t ask what had started the altercation with Mr ten men and she didn’t volunteer any information. She lit a cigarette but the taxi arrived before she could finish it. Then she was gone into the night; the whole thing from the scream to the taxi beeping its horn couldn’t have lasted more than twenty minutes. I sat in my office staring at the cigarette she had left burning in the ashtray and wondered if the streak of red on the filter was blood or lipstick.

Two days later she arrived at the track looking for me, one of the lads told her that I was across the road having lunch in the pub. When she walked through the door she looked completely different than she had the night of the altercation on the beach road. She breezed in to the pub dressed in a white thin strapped dress that perfectly showed of her tanned skin and blonde hair. She paused to look round then smiled brightly when she saw me sat at the bar, she walked confidently over and sat on the stool next to me and asked if she could buy me a drink. “It was unforgivable of me not to thank you for coming to my rescue the other night” she said displaying perfectly white teeth “. I was upset and just wanted to go home”. I waved her thanks aside like any hero would and set about enjoying being in the company of a very attractive young woman.

My life is a little like being in combat, long periods of boring bugger all, punctuated by hair-raising moments of excitement. This then was how I came to meet Elaine who I have to admit was far to sophisticated for a shit hole like Great Yarmouth. We spent the rest of the afternoon chatting, and I impressed her with tales of the nightlife in the great metropolis of Manchester (Well she looked impressed). We saw each other for two months and during that time the reason for her being attacked was never brought up. I reasoned that when she wanted me to know she would tell me.

I was having another late night at the track; the lads had gone uptown for a drink and left me alone again. The phone rang, it was Elaine, “Will you wait at the track for me, I need to speak to you”. You just know when bad shit is coming, at least I do. When she arrived she looked beautiful but nervous. She sat down and explained that the bully who had treated her so badly that night on the beach road was her husband. They had broken up several times because of his violence but each time he had begged her to forgive him with promises that it would never happen again and of course each time it did. She was adamant that he loved her really and this time was different, he was going to keep his word.

They were travelling down to London that night, where he had managed to find a flat and a job; things would be different now. She nervously lit a cigarette and asked if I was mad at her. I was thinking the words “That kind of man never changes Elaine” but heard myself wishing her every happiness, and no, I wasn’t mad at her. She got up to leave; he was waiting outside in the car for her, I told her to ring me if she ever needed help. She smiled and once again she was gone into the night, I found myself alone in that bloody office looking at another half-smoked cigarette streaked with red lipstick.

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An open apology to my Daughter

I come cap in hand to my blog this morning to apologise for trashing my Daughters cooking. The special onions, which contained garlic, lemon and spices, were a superb entrée to the Chilli con carne, which (Not too hot but just right) was served on a bed of fluffy rice, with coconut and potato wedges on the side. As my Grandfather used to say “Eeeeeeeeyyyy I did enjoy that”.

Be afraid, be very afraid.

My Daughter rang me earlier to invite me for dinner, my heart sank, its not that she is a bad cook, its more a lack of quantity values that she suffers from. She overdoes or under does ingredient amounts, which can have a disastrous effect on both tongue and stomach. Sunday dinners are fine, in fact great, her mixed grill can’t be beaten, and bangers and mash cooked by my little girl are delicious. Even a simple dish like egg and chips can be eaten with the confidence that it will taste good and be cooked perfectly. However the minute she decides to prepare something requiring the accurate measurement and blending of several ingredients her mathematical skills take a nosedive.

I remember once when she was in her first year at high school, she proudly announcing that she was going to make a beef casserole in school cookery class. She was late home so I went to look for her, I found her sat on a wall just up the road from our house head bowed, bag at her feet. She had been crying, apparently some big boys had snatched her bag away from her and began throwing it to each other. She desperately tried to retrieve her bag, horrified that her beef casserole would be ruined. She forgot all about that though when she managed to grab her airborne meal because anger got the better of her and she proceeded to beat the shit out of the boys with it, swinging it round her head like a highland chieftain swings a Claymore.

I told her not to worry, and promised her that I would eat the casserole no matter what state it was in, this was definitely one time I wished I had kept my mouth shut, from both a speaking and eating point of view. When we got home she placed the bag on the table and unzipped it, an aroma akin to burnt wellingtons emanated from the bag. I can hold my nose I thought, I lifted the casserole dish out myself, didn’t want her to cut herself. I needn’t have worried; there was no damage to the glass in fact no damage to anything except perhaps the boy’s heads.

The casserole was intact, in fact it was the casserole that had protected and held the dish together. In all probability the casserole would have been immune to an armour-piercing missile it was that hard, And I had promised my Daughter I would eat it. My brain raced (Well more of a slow stroll really) for a solution, Gravy, that would soften it up (I hoped) about a gallon should be enough. I was living a dream; not even a lake of gravy could have tenderised what in effect was culinary concrete.

So it is with some trepidation that I prepare myself for tonight’s feast. “Chilli con carne with special onions” though you might be thinking what can go wrong, after all its just ground beef, mushrooms, chilli plus whatever the con in Chilli con carne is. It’s the special unions that are worrying me. Why not just regular unions? why make things complicated?, why risk buggering up a fairly simple dish by introducing a wild card?.

I think I will stop of at my house on the way in and bang a couple of toilet rolls in the fridge for later. Call it insurance, call it fear. I will let you know how I get on.

Triumphs and disasters Part 1

I was reflecting over the weekend on my dating score since my second wife left (For the final time) ten years ago. It doesn’t seem like ten years have passed since she slung her proverbial hook with a Yugoslavian Knife sharpener from Belgrade, but as the saying goes Time fly’s when you are enjoying yourself. True I was gutted at first, nobody likes change but within a couple of hours of the door shutting behind her, I became used to the idea of living without the woman I had always assumed I was going to drag the rest of my life out with.

The last few months we spent together was a bad time for me, she left and returned many times and as the year hurtled toward its end. I knew it would soon be over. Call it intuition, call it a hunch, call it what you will but I knew somehow that things were not right between us. At first it was little things that tipped me off that something was wrong. Things like my watches and rings going missing, having my card snatched at the ATM because there was no money in my account, other men wearing my clothes, my wife calling me Olaf when we made love. Incidents that on their own wouldn’t mean anything but put them all together and they add up to Get a grip you thick bastard, Are you blind man? or who comes home at four in the morning after visiting their Mother wearing a little black number with her tights inside out?..

She walked through the front door for the last time on Christmas day at four in the afternoon as I lay on the bed sleeping off a huge great turkey dinner and two helpings of plum duff with rum sauce. I was awoken by the sound of her creeping around the bedroom on all fours gathering the clothes she was to take with her for this final departure. I didn’t open my eyes but pretended to sleep, as she crawled onto the landing and down the stairs.

As the front door closed quietly behind her I opened my eyes and forced myself to rise and sit on the edge of the bed, It wasn’t easy; it took all my willpower to force my muscles to comply with this simple task. A turkey dinner with all the trimmings and a four and a half pound plum duff pudding is a lot of weight to carry around, but I forced myself up into a sitting position and then on to my feet. Slowly I walked to the landing window and looked out at the woman I had spent twenty three years of my life with walking away from our marriage with her possessions in two black bags and several ammunition cases. I was to spend the rest of what should have been a day of celebration alone, and as I necked several bottles of Baileys I wondered what the future would hold.


I was to find out on New Year’s eve when friends who insisted that I shouldn’t spend the beginning of a New Year alone dragged me to a party. They were adamant that I should start as I meant to go on. Well that new years eve I got as pissed as a carrot and stayed that way for more or less the rest of the year. Through the foggy haze of alcoholic excess I managed to carry on as normal, I ate, I slept, and I worked. I had plenty of female friends I could go out with for a meal, a movie or a couple of drinks. But I was giving myself a year before commiting myself to any kind of sexual relationship. It was only fair to the dwindling memory of what once had been a mediocre marriage.

In the event I only lasted three weeks with the sexual thing; I put that down to my will power being out of whack due to the vodka I had become very fond of. You mustn’t get the idea that I was hopelessly addicted to Vodka, far from it, I had become hopelessly addicted to Gin too, and I wasn’t shy about accepting the odd Rum Dachery when it was offered.

I met Lesley at an AA meeting in the spring of that first year as a bachelor. She was blonde, pretty; bright as a button and twenty years younger than I was, but we hit it off right from the start and she was a refreshing change from some of the pot-boilers my well meaning friends had introduced me to. Her story was much the same as mine, abandoned by an uncaring husband, she had taken to drinking cans of lager with a Tia Maria chaser as she did the housework. Over a short period she become dependant on drink to get her through the day, and by the time she had sought help with the AA was in the habit of knocking back seven or eight pints of lager in an afternoon. She had these amazing stomach muscles and could burp like a man.

We would sit next to each other at meetings and soon became friends, then one night as we left a meeting I offered her a lift home, she accepted and as we drove we talked. The conversation turned to her sadness at breaking with her husband and her hatred for the long nights she spent alone. As we pulled up outside her house, she turned to me and almost crying said, “I don’t want to go home just yet, I don’t, I don’t”. I suggested we go for a drink, she threw her head back and laughed loudly saying "Yeah f**k it, lets get f*****g pissed”. That night we drank, and later made love wildly in the back of a bread van left in the pub car park.

As the dawn broke over our naked bodies covered in bread rolls and the contents of squashed jammy doughnuts, we collected our thoughts and our clothes and made our way (Somewhat stickily) to our respective homes. Later as I stood in the shower allowing the hot water to run over my aching body I relived the passion of the bread van and marvelled at the versatility of bread products.

We were to meet many times after that night, and on every occasion we managed to put foodstuffs to good use during our sexual exploration of each other. We tried it all, the exotic Hot pot supper samba, the Bar-B-Q bang, sex through salad, we even went Vegan but it was a little too fetish for our taste. It wasn’t to last. She met another guy at a weight watchers club for insomniacs and whilst he was completely ok with the idea of sharing her both physically and culinary, I knew it was a recipe for disaster. She had to choose and unfortunately for me she chose fast food over Cordon Bluer.

It was the first of many disappointing relationships, but I will always remember that time with fondness and relish (No pun intended) and it was good fun and great practice for what lay ahead for me in the dating game.

To be continued………….

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The Angel of Manchester.

Gorton cemetery is situated on a rolling hill where Hyde road and Reddish lane converge. These two remnants of Roman civil engineering are separated by a long stretch of wasteland that was once part of the great inland waterways of Great Britain. The canal has long gone a victim of forward thinking by yet another inept government. Who exchanged what was once a picturesque reed clogged canal walkway populated by wildlife and the fauna of nature, for fly-tippers paradise overrun by muggers, lovers and druggies. Which now boasts more used condoms and empty syringes per square mile than anywhere else in this sceptre'd Isle we love so much.

In the Southwest corner of this quiet resting-place for the long gone, under a canopy of elder trees that hide from view a pile of old broken bikes washing machines and several busted microwave ovens. You will see if you look closely a small dark grey headstone that boasts the name, start and finish date of one, Victoria Dunwelding. The Manchester Angel. Victoria or VD as her friends affectionately knew her suffered greatly at the mercy of this world, but was once a legend in North Manchester. Sadly only a few ageing and decrepit hangers on to life who very soon will join her under the elder trees remember her.

When I was a young boy growing up in west Gorton, I was told the story of the Manchester Angel one hot summer afternoon by a neighbour Lazy Larry as we sat idly watching the bailiffs turn his cosy, comfortable and softly furnished living room into a minimalists dream. They left him with two tea chests. “Its all I need” he cried, “Just give me a couple of tea chests, a hot mug of tea and an arrowroot biscuit and I’m happy”. His words came back to haunt me many years later when at his funeral I could have sworn I saw the words “Produce of India” stencilled on the sides of his coffin.

Victoria was the fifteenth child born to Miriam a honeycomb tripe scrubber from Bolton and Eric a WC engineer and ballcock recycler whose antecedents are unknown. Shortly after Victoria was born her Father left the house with a quantity of copper balls for a customer and was never seen again. This put a great fiscal strain on the family and as a result they were thrown into the infamous Cheatham Hill workhouse which these days goes by the name of North Manchester General Hospital. (No change there then) The children separated from their Mother had to make their own way, and Victoria found it harder than her siblings.

She was an ugly child with a squat face, pug nose, high forehead and a squint that gave her the impression of always being constipated. Weighing in at forty two pound when born, her Mother said after a seventy two hour labour that left her little more than skin and bodily fluids “Never again and I bleeding mean it this time”. It’s this statement some say that prompted her husband to disappear with his balls. We will never know, what we do know is that at the age of three years old she was dumped by a workhouse employee on the steps at the convent of the “Little sisters of the financially embarrassed” in the village of Harpurhey on the outskirts of Manchester city centre. A workhouse diary entry from that day remarks “Its now or never, if we leave it any longer it will be a two man job”. Its thought that this was a reference to her size, workhouse children were weighed every week, and the last entry for Victoria states that she tipped the scales at one hundred and fifty pound. A smidgen over what a three-year-old should weigh.

The sisters treated her no differently than any of the other orphans in their care, she was beaten twice a day (Three times on a Sunday) and was give two square meals of bread and water, breakfast was at three in the morning and supper at midnight. The time in between was filled by work and prayer, work consisted of crawling along carrot furrows on her hands and knees in a large field weeding out the nettles and dandelions with her bare hands, whilst prayer mostly was taken up by beseeching her creator to blow the bleeding carrot field out of existence.

Despite her Spartan life Victoria continued to pile the pounds on and by the time she was fifteen she was a six foot four, (Not counting the stoop) three hundred and sixty pounds mountain of fat and muscle. Records at the time liken her to a cross between a valkrian and an amazon warrior. Time had not tempered her ugliness, rather it had emphasised her faults and her countenance was a site to behold. She still had the squint, exaggerated by the fact that one of her eyes had dropped lower than the other after a particularly bad beating by sister Malicious (I think she was Greek) which also resulted in her sporting cauliflower ears. Her jaw was wide and square; she had no neck to speak of which gave her the appearance of having a tapered head. She wore her hair coconut style, short and spiky, that and the scars from regularly getting her arse kicked by the nuns made her a scary looking person.

So scary in fact that the nuns in fear of reprisals for the beatings they had handed out to her over the years asked her to leave the convent at age sixteen. Out in the world, on her own for the first time in her life she was lost. She left that dreaded place with just the knickers she stood up in and a sack of carrots to keep her going until she could earn enough money to support herself. By hard work and good fortune she was engaged by an engineering firm in Ardwick as an apprentice sheet metal worker. And for the next five years learned her trade under the wing of Harry Stackpole, master tinsmith and panel basher. Harry was an ex merchant seaman with a dubious past, he leaned toward the lavender and was immortalised in the Manchester Guardian headline that ran “I never laid a hand on him, honest” (It was illegal then).

She was happy working at Foundry construction until its closure in the late thirties after it was found liable for the illegal use of low hydrogen welding rods containing arsenic that had been used on ducting installed at a hospital where several patients were poisoned. (No change there either) Out of a job and alone again she eked out a living by collecting coal eggs that had fallen from passing freight trains onto the railway tracks which she then sold from door to door. She was quite successful at this (Well no body was gonna say no was they?).

Doing the coal run during the day and working as a bouncer in the clubs of Manchester by night, over time Victoria managed to save a little nest egg. And together with Busta Jarvis a fellow doorman and boyfriend they rented the basement of a department store next door to the famous Listons bar and opened it as the now infamous Labia lounge. There is confusion about the intended name of the club. Busta suggested they call it “The VD club” but that was vetod. Victoria always maintained that she wanted the club named as homage to the frightful time her Mother had giving birth to her. It’s a matter of record that the signwriter was dyslexic, although the term they used in the sixties for this condition was pillock. In any case the name stuck and the legend of Victoria Dunwelding the Manchester Angel began.

Business was good for a time; the club became a popular haunt for the public, police officers, judges and the odd MP. Some quite famous celebrities were connected to this Manchester hot spot. People such as Johnny ‘Knucklehead’ Bailey the British heavyweight bare knuckle champion, Gloria ‘Those aren’t my drawers’ Gousei the glamour queen from Salford and Barry ‘Pigsick’ Barlow notorious henchman for the Tray quins who terrorised Ashton and Duckinfield for decades. Its rumoured that pigsick who disappeared in the late sixties is now an integral part of the concrete structure fondly known as the Arndale centre (Aka brick shit house) but this has never been substantiated.

The good times were not to last, for on the night of February the fifth less than nine month after its conception the club became a raging inferno. It was never discovered how the fire started, whether it was a carelessly thrown match, a cigarette left to burn or the deliberate act of a sick mind we will never know. Some believe it was a war between the Tray Quins who wanted in on the Labia and the police who always had a finger in Victoria’s Labia club.

One thing is sure, that night Victoria displayed amazing bravery, she fought her way through the inferno time after time to rescue punters trapped by smoke and flames. Carrying people two at a time on her shoulders she would take them to safety and return into the wall of heat to rescue more. She was burned terribly, but with great determination and total disregard for her own safety she saved the lives of over a hundred frightened and thoroughly pissed of, pissed up people that night.

After several weeks in the intensive burns unit at her old workhouse (North Manchester General) she found the courage to look at the damage to her face. What she saw in the mirror frightened even her. Gone were her cauliflower ears, gone was her pug nose, her squat face had ballooned out, her once squinty eyes were now just slits in her plug ugly face. Her coconut hair had been burned clean off leaving an angry patchwork quilt of red and purple scar tissue. But worse of all, Busta the only man who ever made her feel like a real woman and who she had tried to save time and time again before being forced back by the flames was burnt to a crisp in the gents toilet of the club and not enough of him could be scraped off the floor to hold a funeral.

She decided to leave England and her sad memories behind her and travel to Tibet, where in the foothills of the Himalayas she could live as a simple monk in a quiet monastery for what remained of her life. With a heavy heart and a truckload of salmon paste sandwiches she boarded a freight class aeroplane at what then was Ringway airport. And began her long journey to the Mashtup temple in Bangalot Tibet where she lived out the rest of her life in prayer and thought, surviving on handouts from local people friendly to the monastery (Mostly carrots to her dismay)

She died peacefully with Bustas name on her lips (What was left of them) and would have been buried in Tibet but the Head Lama complained that they didn’t have the room for her saying “Tibet’s not that big ya know”. He insisted her body be returned to England. Because of her disfigurement and the fact that she was returned to her native country via a long sea voyage (Cheaper than airmail) it was a closed casket do. A young cub for the Gorton and Openshaw reporter never having laid eyes on her dubbed her the Manchester Angel.

Victoria was laid to rest under the elder trees in Gorton cemetery on the sixth of March 1975. Nobody lined the streets for her funeral cortège; no one came forward to recite a eulogy for the Manchester Angel who saved so many lives that fateful night. Only two people attended her funeral, Sister Rosa Ree and a tall sallow chap with a gaunt face and a peculiar face tick who kept repeating “I didn’t have to come ya know”.

The small grey headstone bears these simple words. “Here lies Victoria Dunwelding spinster and part time door person. 1889-1975. It’s a piss poor tribute to the big woman with an even bigger heart who rests below it.

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I'v got it.

I went to the Doctors this morning for my regular check up. He seemed surprised to see me which doesn’t really inspire confidence, He always looks tired and run down, so I usually end up asking him how he feels, suggest he gets some rest and eats properly, perhaps lose a few pounds.

The small talk over he takes blood samples, checks my blood pressure all the usual stuff, this time I had to take in a water sample. Nothing to eat or drink from midnight puts a strain on your mind even when usually you don’t eat or drink anything from midnight. It’s the fact that you cant that gets your goat, so without fail at the stroke of twelve the hunger pangs start and your throat dries up and swallowing is almost impossible.

I put the sample in the fridge whilst I shaved and showered. It went in as clear as a bell, but when I took it out it had undergone a drastic change, no longer a light straw colour it resembled an abandoned glass of old scrumpy cider from the night before. Dirty yellow with half an inch of sediment at the bottom, it had everything but leaves floating on the top.

Too late to do another sample, and anyway I was dehydrated and all peed out, so this Florida swamp water would have to suffice. As it happened its quite normal for that to happen I was told, and not being in the habit of carting bottles of pee around I have to assume he wasn’t lying just to make me feel better. The check up over and having passed with if not exactly flying colours, at least gently fluttering colours he asked if I had any concerns about my health.

As it happens I had, just recently I had been suffering from excruciating cramp that projected me at enormous speed from the confines of my warm duvet to a standing position on my bedroom floor. This could happen at any time of the night, and sometimes only walking up and down my landing for long periods would alleviate the pain. No problem he said with a smirk, I will prescribe some zinc pills that will put a stop to that. Its quite common among men of your age, (I hate that expression) nothing to worry about. “Anything else bothering you?”

“As a matter of fact there is” I looked him in the eye and brought my (Fox the Doctor) plan B into action. “Sometimes in the evening and occasionally in the afternoon, but so far never in the morning, I have had jumpy about legs”. His eyes dropped to my legs for an instant as if expecting them to jump about on cue. I had this mental image of a Russian Cossack arms folded across his chest in the squat position back as strait as a ramrod and upper torso not moving whilst his legs flung themselves about wildly in all directions, as I explained my symptoms.

He looked thought full for a moment as though he were wrestling with an enormous scientific problem that could save mankind from any future pain. “You probably have R.L.S.” My heart sank, R.L.S. oh no, not R.L.S. I’m too young, I haven’t lived, theirs a lifetime of experience waiting for me out there.
“What’s R.L.S.” I asked him not really wanting to know the answer. He began to make out my zinc prescription whilst he explained. Restless legs syndrome, “its very common among men your age,” (There was that expression again) “but usually just a change of diet will correct it. I wouldn’t complain too much” he said, your very active from the waist down for a man of your age. He laughed; I didn’t appreciate the joke, but laughed anyway.

I left the surgery a little perturbed that the upper half of my body was out of sync with the lower half of my body, but armed with the knowledge that I was now the proud owner of a Syndrome. I could face the girls at work who were always whinging about swollen feet, pmt, and girlie flatulence and hold my own with a genuine Syndrome. I wondered if I should limp to emphasise my syndrome, perhaps not, they will get the message when they see me making a will out and I ask them to witness it.

Miserable bleeder.

I went to renew my car insurance yesterday. It's a bit of a pain in the arse because the insurance company I use has nowhere to park. It’s on the main road, which usually means a ticket, so that any money I save on using this company is offset by the parking fine. Stupid really but I still do it.

As I approached the desk a very lovely young blonde in a smart, almost strict two piece suit smiled and asked if she could do anything for me. I managed to smile back and keep what I was thinking to myself. I informed her why I was there and asked about an alternative policy to the one I already had. As I admired her spotless white blouse, which was attempting to escape from and threatening to spoil the cut of her well-tailored jacket, she said “One moment while I bring your account up on the computer”. As she tapped away with blood red manicured nails that exactly matched her lipstick she pushed one of her cheeks out from the inside of her mouth with a pink wet tongue.

She shoved an A4 form in front of me and asked me to fill my details in. As I wrestled with the cheap pen on a chain attached to the counter she walked over to a desk to get something and it was then that I noticed her stocking clad legs, yes guys, stockings with seams. Most guys are, and I know for sure that I am, a sucker for seamed stockings (On the right legs of course). My heart was in my mouth; other bits of my anatomy had rearranged themselves too. I was completely ready for my epiphany, when she came back; she leaned seductively across the counter and launched into her spiel.

At this point she could have sold me anything, and I would gladly have paid up, no questions asked. But she had to spoil it all by opening her mouth. This is what came out (Paraphrasing of course).
“At the moment yeah? you have the basic yeah? policy yeah?, its not upgradable as such yeah? but we can give you yeah? a discount on the time yeah? that you’re old policy yeah? Has left to run yeah?

My attention was diverted from her tits to her face, and the blood-racing round my frail body was diverted from where it had been to my ears. “I’m not sure what it was you said” She rolled her beautiful eyes and once again tried to communicate in what I can only assume is modern speak and an ever growing problem amongst young people these days.
“You’re old policy yeah? Only has a month yeah? To run yeah? So it can’t be upgraded yeah? To a new one yeah? You will have to take out yeah? A completely different yeah? Policy yeah? cos the limit yeah? On upgrading yeah? Is two yeh? Month ok? The ok came as a bit of a surprise in a landscape of yea’s

By using the word yeah every other word she had managed to ask eleven questions to my one, not counting the Ok which is itself, a question. I looked round for help, the place was empty but for her. Had it been a man and not an attractive young woman I would have called him a moron and walked out. As it was, the gentleman in me prevented my lambasting her inarticulation. That and the fact that I am a sucker for seamed stockings (On the right legs of course) and the base animal in me that can’t or won’t give up when my sexual hackles have been raised, stopped me from being rude to her. Instead I just said that I needed air and walked out.

Call me easily offended but it seems to me that inserting the yeah word between every other word when explaining something to someone infers (By the explainer) that the person it is being explained to is as thick as pig shit. And therefor one has to qualify that they understand fragmented sentences of two or more words before proceeding.

The only other explanation is that the misuse of the word yeah gives the user thinking time. Either way I’m not impressed not even when seamed stockings (On the right legs of course) are used.

You know it makes sense., don't you?

I’m thinking of writing a book entitled “Chat up lines for women” I know there are plenty of books out there written by girls for girls, but think about it, I know what works for me.

Don't listen to me I talk shit.

It’s always been a mystery to me why it is that people have for most of my adult life asked my advice about anything and everything. People who do the asking really do think that I have no problems whatsoever, I know this because they have told me at the time of asking for the advice. It seems I sail through life without a care. It’s not that I mind helping, but the responsibility lies heavy if they actually take the advice I offer.

Mostly they don’t, thank heaven, I have found that a request for advice is really a search for confirmation of their own ideas about what it is they should do and if what you say differs from what they think, they will look elsewhere for wise words. Usually its women who ask this old sage for a solution to whatever problem is troubling them, and the problem usually is a man. No surprises there, but a couple of weekends ago it wasn’t a teary eyed beauty whom I could have taken advantage of (Just joking) but a pal of mine who is probably the last person I would have thought would have had woman trouble.

He is tall, good looking, well dressed and a confident type of chap, so it was with some surprise that I opened my front door early Sunday evening to a distressed looking, stooped and thoroughly dejected looking, far from confident gibbering idiot. That it was pissing down didn’t help, he stood there soaked through apologising for bothering me on my day off, and as he spoke his voice wavered and hiccuped in that way young kids do when talking and crying at the same time. I just knew this was gonna be juicy.

I invited him in and gave him a towel to dry his hair; he rubbed vigorously for a minute or so, which left his usually neatly couffered locks stuck out in all directions. So eager was he to reveal his tale of woe to me that he left it uncombed and for the rest of the consultation my eyes kept wondering to the birds nest on his head. However as I didn’t want to interrupt his flow, I kept my mouth shut.

“She is ending it Dave, after two years together she is dumping me” I asked why, he tearfully replied “She said I don’t do it for her, never have. She said all these years she has pretended to be happy with our sex life hoping it would get better, but it hasn’t so she has found someone who does do it for her”.
I asked if she had ever tried to talk about it before now and try to work things out. He screwed his face up and said, “Nope, never, I always thought things were ok in that department. She was always verbally demonstrative when we made love”.

Do you know whom this new guy is I asked? Choking back tears he said “Yes, its some muscle bound bastard from the gym she goes to. I tried to placate him, your not exactly thin and weedy yourself old boy. He looked at me through ever more reddening eyes; “Well he has got far more muscle than he needs and besides, she said he had a bigger widji than me. (His words not mine) “What do I do”.

I looked at his sticky out hair and thought for a moment about offering to lend him mine, widji not hair but mercifully I bit my lip. Humour never helps when it’s a case of widji size; men can be very sensitive about this subject. I asked him what he said after she gave him the devastating news, “Nothing, I just walked out of the house and drove around for a few hours, then I came here”.

I asked him if he wanted the truth or just some kind words that would make him feel better, he opted for the truth. I stood up to deliver my monologue. “As hurt as you feel right now, spare a thought for the fact that she has lied to you for the last two years. She lied by pretending to enjoy your lovemaking, and I know that’s true for a lot of women, if only to spare the feelings of the one whom can’t perform to their satisfaction. But at least at some point most women will say enough is enough and bring it to the table for discussion, usually because they love that person and want to make it better. He wrung his hands.

She has also lied to you in that for her to know that Mr Muscles can perform better than you can, she would have to have tested the water so to speak to gain that knowledge. He winced. By allowing you to continue thinking that everything in the garden was rosy she has been underhanded and cruel, it occurs to me that she could possibly have held back on purpose waiting for someone like Mr Muscles to come along who could offer her what she wanted. I was in full stride now. In fact it’s a distinct possibility that Mr Muscles wasn’t the first time she ate out as it were. He winced again and wrung his hands.

Whichever way you look at it my friend she has thought of herself and not you, do you really want to live with a woman who can deceive you without a second thought for your feelings. She didn’t even spare you the humiliation of her thinking you a bad lover. She could have just said she had met someone else, but no she had to twist the knife. He grimaced as though the knife were being twisted as we spoke.

I paused from my verbal whipping of this cruel, woman and saw the very real pain in his eyes. You really love her don’t you? He sobbed. “Yes, what am I going to do”. I’m a sucker for tears, so I poured him a drink and asked again exactly what he had said when she gave him the news. “Nothing, I was so shocked, I just walked out”. Ok I said, that’s good, no need to backtrack. The house belongs to you doesn’t it. He nodded but said she had asked him to find a Hotel for a week or so until she could make arrangements.

Right, you go back, tell her that you are relived that she broke up with you because you have been trying to find a way to do that for months, but couldn’t come up with anything. Then you tell her, not ask her to leave and find herself a hotel, or move in with Mr Muscles who by rights should be prepared to house her as well as sexually entertain her. If she argues, just tell her that you have already informed your new girlfriend of the break up (The reason for your leaving so quickly) and she is even now packing her things ready to move in when you leave. He looked ashen, “But that will make things worse surely, I’m not sure I can do that”. You can and you will my friend, trust me it will work. After another drink and a great deal of trying to convince him that my strategy was faultless, he left hair still pointing in all directions to pursue his destiny.

At this point I have to admit that I thought it wouldn’t work, I know his girlfriend and she isn’t a pleasant type, without doubt he would be better of without her. So playing God and going against my policy of none interference I urged him to have the bollocks to dare it out and play her at her own game. Surprisingly he did have the bollocks, and surprisingly it did work, her bluff was called and she collapsed, after two nights away, she came back asking for his forgiveness and another chance to try again. My plan backfired.

He phoned last week to tell me the good news and I can only assume that she has gone back to her verbal acting in bed and he spends rather more time than he used to in front of the mirror inspecting his widji. Was I wrong? Well was I?.

All is clear.

One or two people have asked how my Grandson Mark came up with the wombat-shit line in his poem “Death” in the “Little Laureates” post. Well I asked him yesterday and he said that he had been watching a wildlife program in which a vet was treating a wombat, for what I do not know. Anyway the wombat shit on the floor of the vets office and the vet complained saying “Chriky mate” (I assume he was Australian) that smells like a dead horse”. I looked at him “So the Wombat wasn’t dead, the horse was dead”. He nodded and rolled his eyes.

I asked him where he got the word excrement from, he said his teacher wouldn’t let him use the word shit, he changed it to poo, she wouldn’t let him use that either, she said he could use a laxative word. I couldn’t wait for this one; He looked at me as though I were a moron when I asked what a laxative word was. “It’s a language the Romans used in the olden days”. Mark slapped his forehead as if to say “at last the old farts got it”.

Marky finished his explanation, smiled and shook his head; there was obviously no hope for me. The Wombat thing, death by proxy I suppose. He carried on making his Birds instant whip satisfied that he had put me right, I carried on being perplexed.

Sparkle of Manchester.

Iv been commissioned to build a web site for a new company in Manchester called “Sparkle”, they are a beauty treatment salon where the ladies can get their legs and bikini line waxed and any other area that can’t be got at with a razor (Shades of the last post). They perform manicures and pedicures as well as massage, tanning and teeth whitening. It’s a one stop shop for cleaning up your act as it were and I am having to learn new terminology for lady bits as well as being privy to some of the best kept secrets that women don’t keep.

Its amazing just how much there is to nail care, such things as Bio Sculpture gel, overlays and infills were before this week just scary words that women used when attacking a mans wallet. And who would have thought that the words fibreglass systems could be applied to nails. Sworovski crystal for example could be the plot of a new James Bond film for all I knew, but it seems it’s the now thing for teeth, and not just something you hang round your neck.

The head honcho has told me I can have 10% off anything in his salon, though what I could have done there is debatable. Still they do a rather good line in St Tropez sun tan spray. Yeah sounds good what with my new Goatee and bronze kipper, I will be getting nearer to Sean Connery, that should please “Kaz” and “the British bird”

Spot the difference.

I normally wake up bright eyed and ready for the day. Well I definitely wake up, however this morning I felt like shit, sat on the edge of the bed for a while and mentally prepared myself for the knee bend that would propel me to a vertical position. I dragged myself to the bathroom, stood motionless for a few minutes doing nothing in particular. I decided to make some coffee that usually gets me going. I make a point of not looking in the mirror until after I have showered (Its not a pretty sight) for some reason after a nights sleep my hair looks like an explosion in a mattress factory, bed head isn’t the word.

The coffee did the trick, but I still couldn’t quite shake of the can’t be arsed feeling. After I shower I shave, I really didn’t want to go through that chore this morning so I decided to try the George Michael look, problem was I looked more like George Melley, so designer stubble was out. I would have to shave. Most men hate shaving, it’s a chore, and it’s boring. I wet shave in the morning and keep an electric razor at work to top up during the day. Weekends if I can get away with it I don’t shave at all.

Its ok for women they don’t shave unless you count running a little pink thing over the fluffy down on their legs whilst they are in the bath as shaving. And the other bits they attend to, well it’s just an excuse to practice one of their favourite pastimes, talking about, shopping for and using toiletries. It’s a girl thing and I get it I really do, but unless you are a male model farting about like that is not for real men. They just want to scrape the shit of their face and get down to a hard day of herding cattle, or fixing pipes or flying fighter planes and shit.

Some men have quite a light beard; mine is heavy and a bugger to get rid of. It can grow to uncomfortable levels even a couple of hours after shaving, which is fine for weekends when your fixing the car or just chilling out. But it is always a bugger when you are out on the pull. Invariably if you get lucky enough to spend the night, or even a short evening with a young lady, once you get close enough to see up her nose she will without doubt ask you to shave, complaining that your face is to rough. I understand, a beard can do untold damage to the fair skin of a woman, but some of them have sent me back several times to re-shave and I have complied. One girl asked me to re-shave four times. By the fourth shave I had gone completely of the mood and asked her to leave, politely of course.

There is one woman I would shave a hundred times and more if she asked me to, for just the conversation she would be worth it, but she won’t.

Little Laureates.

Young Writers is the young people’s publishing imprint of Forward Press - The People’s Publisher.
Established in 1991, Young Writers has promoted poetry and creative writing within schools for the past 15 years by running annual nationwide competitions. Each competition results in the publication of a collection of regional anthologies showcasing the work of today’s schoolchildren. The British Library has over a decade of Young Writers collections in its national archive!

And my Grandson Mark has a poem in this latest publication “Little Laureates”. It’s a poem about death, morbid I know but they were given a list of subjects they could write about and Markey chose death as the best in the list. I’m not quite sure what the other subjects were about, but rest assured, if he chose death then they must have been boring.

This is the poem:

Death feels like dark beetles and caterpillars and spiders.
Death is like burning, blazing pieces of flames eating up your life.
Death tastes like dark pools of blood.
Death feels like fire burning your heart.
Death looks like a blazing fire burning down a forest.
Death smells like a dead wombat that’s left its excrement.

Mark aged 9.

Hmmm makes a change from Angels, harps and fluffy white clouds doesn’t it? Now if you are as alarmed after reading this as I was, then don’t be. Apparently according to a psychiatrist friend of mine (Well he said he was my friend) Male children almost always turn to the dark side of things to explain the strange and abstract. Where as the female child will for the most part look to the light for inspiration.

I have read the book and found similar types of poems by boys and lovely fluffy poems by girls, so the content bears this out. What I want to know is at what point during his young life did he come across some dead Wombat shit.

Well done Mark.

Who ate all the pie's.

The weekend turned out ok although the fireworks promised by the annual Perseids meteor shower failed to impress me. It was cloudy on and off so not great weather for shooting star watching. I was going to cut the grass to but rain prevented that thank god, besides had I done so I have no doubt that my new neighbour with the baldy Tefal head would have been out again trying to bond with me. He is one of the despised sleeveless coat brigade. The day after he moved in I saw him replacing a single screw in his garden shed door. He had one of those buff coloured leather toolbelts that the Americans are so fond of. He must have had a hundredweight of hardware hanging from that belt and all for just one screw that took him three minutes to replace.

God knows why he has picked on me I must be the least likely looking do it yourselfer on the planet. I would rather let someone else do it. On the occasions that I have tried to do it myself I always come unstuck. Like the time I decided to do it myself armed with a huge crowbar to pull the front off a four by four at work. The bar slipped, smacked me in the face, loosening teeth and causing several cuts to lips and conk, and this just two days before flying to Canada to meet a gorgeous young lady. It’s not easy trying to charm someone when your face looks like a baboon’s arse.

Being lazy has its drawbacks, like today I shot myself in the foot because I couldn’t be arsed going to the shop for something to eat. I’ll explain, last Friday week there was no kitchen staff on, so the girls went to the butty shop on two occasions and didn’t ask me if I wanted anything. I was a little upset that they didn’t think of me and admonished them whilst they stuffed their fat faces. I was pretty good, I even convinced myself that what they had done was unforgettably hurtful. Then Saturday they did it again, they hung their heads in shame afterwards. So to rub it in further this afternoon I popped my head into their office to ask if they wanted anything from the butty shop, only to find them tucking into pies and sandwiches.

I did a Victor Meldrew and said “I don’t believe it” they looked sheepish and said sorry, but I dismissed them saying I have to go out, Back later. I drove to the butty shop, ordered two bloody great meat and potatoe pies and sat in my car to eat them. This way I could make them feel worse than they did by letting them think I had nothing to eat. Rotten aren’t I? Well it backfired, shortly after I returned to the office Helen went to the kitchen and made me a meal, a quite big meal. I had to eat it or she would have been offended, eventually I got it all down and she smiled at the clean plate I had left.

Happy that she had redeemed herself she went over to the education unit to relieve Christine (We are short staffed due to holidays) who on leaving the education unit went to the butty shop to get me something to eat. She returned with a meat and potato pie and a steak and kidney pie, plus a jam doughnut the size of a dustbin lid. She plonked them down on my desk saying, “There you go, you must be starving poor boy”. I looked at the food and felt a familiar shift in my stomach region. She sat herself down at my desk and told me she would keep me company whilst I ate, I had no choice but force down, and look like I was enjoying this latest pile of grub that was threatening to burst my guts apart with every mouthful.

My skin was stretched like a kettle drum across my abdomen and I feared I was going to lose the lot, but I managed to keep it down although I’m not moving to far away from a toilet until I’m sure its not gonna blow like a volcano.

Well that’s what happens when you are deceitful and lie, have I learnt my lesson? Have I buggery.

Jackson Pollock.

Jackson Pollock the biggest piss take of modern times,if not of all time, talk about the kings new clothes.

Just another day.

Its Friday again, last working day of the week for some. Remember the days when the only thing that kept you sane was the thought of that big fat wage packet that was shoved into your hand on a late Friday afternoon. And the thought that later on after a hurried tea and a bath you would be taking part in the age old custom of leaning on a bar trying to look cool, or displaying your latest moves on a sticky dance floor?

Those were the day’s ehh? You could keep track of your money then; you knew to within a penny where you stood. These days it’s in the bank. Out of the bank, other people have control and all behind your back. For all we know whilst we sleep there could be hoards of people utilising our money to make yet more money and sunning themselves in the south of France on the profit they make, after putting our pittance back of course. On reflection I think that is what happens, oh well easy come easy go.

No, Fridays are not the same anymore; there is no run up to the weekend for me. Just the same old drudge that makes one day run into another. My life is bereft of fiscal landmarks. I mourn not only the Friday wage packet, but also the dreadful feeling on waking up Saturday morning after a night’s shenanigans and rummaging through my pockets to find I only have four pence left, that and a lump of chewing gum wrapped in an unused condom.

Going out isn’t the same anymore, where once you could strut your stuff and play the mating game, now the best that you can hope for is a booty call from a female friend as desperate as you are. I paint a glum picture I know but its not really that bad I suppose. Trouble is though the years take their toll on the body, the mind is as agile and as gutter based as it was when bursting through puberty and ready and willing to accept any sexual challenge thrown its way.

Oh well youth is for the young, it’s a bleeding waste though they have no more idea what to do with it than I did when I was young. Life is a separation of the two most important components that make up the ideal sexual gig. On one track you have, youth, energy and strength. On the other track you have knowledge, technique and experience. Both are travelling in different directions, for a brief moment they cross each other’s path and it all comes together brilliantly. But before you know it one is behind the other and getting further away with every passing day.

Friday’s motto: Don’t waste your time looking back, because you have missed the bleeding train.

Gobble,gobble,gobble.

I drove over to Huddersfield last night to take my Grandson to stay with my ex-wife for a week, it’s a treat my daughters children look forward to in the school holidays. They take it in turns to drive the old bat round the twist for a few days. In return she buys them sweets and drags them round charity shops where they buy yet more junk for my Daughter to trip over when they take it home.

I’m not fond of going to see the wrinkly one. She insists on making me mounds of turkey sandwiches, I think she buys it in cheap just after Christmas and freezes it. What I don’t eat during the visit she will wrap in foil with another mound she made for the journey back (Just in case I get hungry) or to eat the day after for my dinner. She is fond of cats, which I am not and has several, plus there is always a batch of kittens somewhere waiting for owners.

She has an annoying habit of remembering the great times we had when we were married, I used to tell her that I couldn’t remember any great times, but it was pointless arguing with her, she just rattles on regardless. So I just fill my mouth with turkey now and sit through it for as long as I have to. Another annoying thing she does is try to offload the crap she buys at these charity shops. Now I know you can pick some bargains up at these places for quite reasonable prices, one or two people have told me about the great deals they have acquired. But my ex seems to be on a mission to get as many bad deals as possible.

Last night she smiled brightly and said “Oh wait, I have something for you, your going to love this, you always said you wanted one of these” she disappeared into her crap cupboard and emerged with a scruffy looking bacon slicer. She held it aloft proudly “Well, didn’t I say I would get you one and it was only ninety pence”. I had a gob full of turkey which I nearly choked on trying to get down because I was going to piss my sides, It took a while to swallow during which time her smile grew wider and she waved the bacon slicer around like a magicians assistant.

During the short interval that I was choking the turkey down everything I wanted to say went through my mind. Like: I have never asked you to get me a bacon slicer, the words bacon slicer have never passed my lips before today. And: it wont slice bacon because it doesn’t have a handle to turn, and even if it did it still wouldn’t slice bacon because it has no blade. And who needs to slice bacon these days, it comes already sliced.

So wide was the triumphant smile on her face that I couldn’t bring myself to deflate her obvious joy at having at last got a small foothold into my life again. It was difficult not to laugh; it was even more difficult to subdue my sarcastic side. But without doubt this latest purchase had made her happy, so I thanked her and put it into the bag with the other crap and the hundredweight of turkey sandwiches she had made for my journey home.

I found it difficult to sleep last night, I tossed and turned for hours, eventually I gave up trying and went downstairs for a drink and a turkey sandwich.

The Boggart and the one legged pigeon.

I worked late last night trying to catch up on things and as a result spent some time with Paula a young lady who worked here several years ago and has come back to answer the phone for a few hours in the evening. I had forgotten how fast she could talk, I got bugger all done of course but I was brought up to date on the last three years of her life and all in two and a half hours.

It was a balmy evening and the sun still shone as I pulled out of the car park to start my journey home. There was little traffic at that time of the day and for once a quite relaxing drive. Being of good mood despite my encounter with the sleeveless one earlier in the day, I decided to take a detour and go the scenic rout. This took me past fields and parks and I realised that I hadn’t sat on a park bench and enjoyed nature’s ambience for years.

I was only five minutes from home as I passed Booth Hall Hospital, which is just across from Bogart Hole Clough, I decided, as this was my last chance of greenery I would stop and enjoy this oasis of nature in a flat and grimy Manchester. I parked my car in the hospital grounds and walked across the road to the clough. In its day this area of Blackley was a Mecca for the posh and well heeled residents who lived in large Victorian houses sat atop the hill overlooking the park.

The clough is so named because of the Boggart – a mischievous imp who is thought to plague with mischief any person who stays in the Clough at night. This legend has never deterred the drug dealers or joy riders who find it an attractive haven for their nefarious activities and can be seen promenading at various times of the day, but mostly at night. I walked the long path that ran parallel with Charlstown road. Eventually I found a bench overlooking a large ravine that boasted a burnt out car and a large park information sign whose message was all but obliterated, apart from the words “Bonga MJ rip is wickid take it out man” scrawled in red paint.

I sat down and wondered what this place must have been like in its hey day. Sadly those times are long gone and what once was picturesque walks, sweeping hills and dells enclosing a placid lake have been replaced by sports areas, cycle paths, tennis courts and of course the famous oil drum collection considered by many to be a form of art. It was quiet and only the sound of a bird coughing every now and again and the odd scream from the hospital across the road broke the silence.

The sun was low over the trees and cast long shadows over a wardrobe and a fridge missing its door, which had been dumped. But the bright orange rays augmented the warm teak of the wood and made bright the shiny bits of the fridge so that they shone like jewels. As I marvelled at this marriage of nature and man a pigeon with a missing leg hobbled past and looked at me accusingly. It stabbed its beak at the ground pointlessly. I had nothing to offer apart from some digestion tablets that were minty with just a hint of fruit; I rummaged in my pocket but before I could get them out the bird had half hopped, half jumped over to the bushes. It’s not easy taking off with only one leg, but it managed it only to flutter to the ground some way away.

It was not my sudden movements that had frightened the bird but the sound of a power saw coming from the old people’s home on Charlestown road. I looked behind me through the trees at the dark gothic building that loomed large on the hill and housed blackley's ancients. The darkening sky was lit with bright orange and red sparks from the power saw which silhouetted the rooftop, every now and again a light as bright as magnesium would illuminate the sky making the chimney pots look like grotesque horses heads. It was rumoured that the inhabitants of this home for the slack bladdered were ringing cars to supplement their meagre pensions. But I couldn’t see it myself, although word on the street was that many a joy rider that dumped a car on the Clough would find it gone if he went back for another spin.

The wind blew gently through the Clough separating blades of grass and worrying fallen leaves into a gentle dance, I decided it was time to go before the cruisers and fallen women arrived to start their nightly business. I walked slowly up the long path that led to the hospital entrance and as I climbed the trunk of a fallen tree that barred my way, I noticed out of the corner of my eye movement in the bushes to my left. I sat on the trunk and waited, there was a glint of something in the undergrowth. I could just make out a pair of eyes watching me. Neither of us moved, it was a battle of wills, my arse had just about gone numb when the eyes flashed and from the bushes emerged a scruffy looking cat with my friend the pigeon in its mouth.

As I crossed the road to return to my car I was almost knocked down by a wild haired lunatic riding one of those mini bikes with the annoying whine who had careered round the corner in a reckless attempt at evading the police car following him. He jumped the pavement and disappeared through the gap in the trees I had used earlier to enter the park. I can only hope that the Boggart got him.

Everything but the sleeves.

Have you noticed how those friends of the earth type old farts who wear sleeveless jackets covered in pockets and zips, are know it all buggers, why do they need so many pockets, and why do they invariably wear a turf trilby with them. One such person accosted me in Asda this morning as I was reading the back of a packet of instant dumpling mix. “Rubbish, I say its rubbish that stuff, cant beat dumplings made the old fashioned way”. I looked at him and sighed, “Really, well these da……”, he cut me off. “Huge great dumplings my Mother used to make, huge they were, she could hardly get em in the pan they were that big”. I smiled and muttered something about the good old days as I walked away. He caught me up, “Your wasting your time with that stuff, get some suit and flour, make yer own. You will probably only get a couple of piddling little dumplings out of that”. He poked my packet as if to emphasise how insignificant its contents were.

At that point my Daughter came up to me and asked me to help her with the milk, she buys great quantities of milk every week and it weighs a ton, I was glad for the chance to get away. My relief was short lived however when the sleeveless guy caught up to me in what passes for the auto section of Asda. I have been meaning to change my wiper blades for months now but always found something else to do instead. As I read the back of the packet of wiper blades to make sure they were correct for my car, the sleeveless one intervened. This time he actually snatched them from my hand, “Waste of money pal, they ought to be crucified for charging that price. Absolute robbery, get yerself down to the nearest Amoco garage, they got them there for three quid, fit any car they will”.

I didn’t want to lose it this morning. I usually do when shopping at Asda that’s why I hadn’t gone in the café for my usual cold coffee and underdone toast, Its also why I drove there quietly and well within the speed limit ignoring the manic antics of other road users. I didn’t want to lose it, and so far I had done quite well. But the guy in the sleeveless jacket was threatening my good intentions. I looked at him and said, “I think I will thank you” and walked away resigned to going through another couple of months peering through my windscreen when there is a downpour.

I sighed with relief as we neared the toiletries section, the last part of a fortnightly trip I am beginning to hate, I pottered around whilst my Daughter went of looking at clothes. I enquired at the counter as to weather they sold replacement heads for my electric razor. They did but at the moment had none in stock. I turned to walk away and found myself looking into the sleeveless ones face. His eyes inches away from mine, screwed up with eyeballs darting left then right, He said in a secretive whisper “Don’t buy em from here mate, the ones they sell are copies, not the real thing, you will be cutting your own throat”. He laughed; I caught the reek of half-digested food and un-brushed teeth. “That sounds like an attractive idea” I said through clenched teeth.

The last stop was the photography thingy place where you can get snaps from your digital camera printed, then we made our way to the checkout. The place was heaving and all the checkouts had a queue as long as your arm. A young girl opened up another station and my Daughter and I made a beeline for it, we were quick, but not as quick as the sleeveless one who came from nowhere and just gazumped us. Too late now, it was put up with him or wait in longer queues. I should have killed him in the dumpling isle and spared myself the frustration of having to wait twenty minutes whilst he argued that the price he had been charged for sixteen boxes of chocolate lollies was wrong. “Four for a fiver” he kept saying “Four for a fiver”. The checkout girl checked and rechecked his bill, explaining that the till was right, but he wouldn’t have it, various members of staff arrived to try and sort it out, and all the while we waited.

Even faced with this farce I kept my cool, but my Daughter lost it, loudly pronounced him a F**king idiot, she dragged all her provisions from the conveyer put them back into her trolley and marched off to another checkout point. I was beginning to shift from one foot to another, the telltale signs were there, sweating palms, hot around the neck, fists clenching and unclenching. I could stand it no more, I butted in, “How much is the difference, I’ll pay it for gods sake”. The check out girl looked at me and said in a tiny voice “One pound ninety eight”. I opened my mouth to roar at him but the checkout supervisor who had come to sort things out wisely controlled the situation and told the young girl to charge in the idiot’s favour.

The flustered checkout girl handed the idiot his receipt and change, he took the receipt, but refused the money saying “I’m not bothered about the one pound ninety eight. But it’s the principle of the thing”.
The supervisor, the checkout girl and myself stood with open mouths as he cheerfully made his way out of the store. I started to laugh, I couldn’t help myself, it was reminiscent of that scene in Stir crazy where Gene Wilder looses it on first entering prison. I could have killed the sleeveless bastard but he had skidaddled.

I need a break from Asda, I know its only once a fortnight, but it seems impossible to negotiate that place without something going wrong, I might give Morrisons a chance next time. At least I will meet a better class of idiot.


The Gratuitous pic at the begining is merely a vehicle to keep male surfers interested if they come here by accident.

A spot of corporal.

School days can be heaven or hell, depending on your outlook and the people whose charge you were in from nine in the morning until four in the afternoon. We used to have an hour and a half for dinner in those days, more than enough time to fart about on the old army camp next to the school, or find out if the rumours about Miriam Hardcore were true.

I was a bit of a rebel, not a troublemaker, I had respect for teachers, but I did like to question them given the opportunity. When I was at school your future was very much in the hands of the teachers; they could make or break you. I don’t doubt that the majority of them became teachers because they wanted to influence and guide young minds and equip them with the basic tools to forge a good and happy life for themselves. The reality though was that too many of them had these good intentions worn out of them over time and the burning need to impart knowledge to inquisitive minds was replaced by the overwhelming desire to strangle the little bastards.

I found very early on that the more cynical teachers made snap judgements about the kind of kid you were simply by looking at you. Mrs Greenhalsh the English teacher for instance took one look at my half-mast pants, unpolished shoes and unruly hair and decided I was an imbecile with no worth. On our first meeting she decided that I was unteachable and therefor I was to be tolerated and no more. It took only a few lessons with this woman for me to realise that I had a better command of the English language than she did, her grammar was atrocious and her spelling was at best suspicious.

Things came to a head one-day during a lesson in pronunciation, despite hailing from Bolton she would insist on speaking with a very bad BBC announcer’s voice. She would often break of from whatever subject she was teaching to applaud the way people spoke down south. One young chap who had stood up to recite his essay to the class was viciously berated by this harridan for pronouncing the word “Bath” hard. “Down south we say Baaaarth, not bath you cretin. The chaps eyes grew smaller, his head dropped and he stood there beaten.

I knew I was going to get into trouble, but I couldn’t help myself. I stood up and said “I’m sorry Mrs Greenhalsh but if you ever do go down South, you will find that the word is pronounced Baaaaarf”, I sat back down to stunned silence, everyone looked at me. Some of the kids started to giggle, but they stopped when a red faced and fuming Mrs Greenhalsh pushed her way through the desks to get at me.
I found myself being dragged by my ear to the classroom door and shoved outside, most of what she said to me was unintelligible, the only thing I took away from that exchange was a great deal of spit and a date with the headmaster after the lesson.

The headmaster was a man you either hated or loved; he could be calm and pleasant or volatile and nasty depending on what your business with him entailed. He had an air about him of a man constantly under pressure trying desperately to maintain his cool. He called the girls ladies and the boys gentlemen, in private he called us the little bastards The fact that he resembled Hitler put a lot of people of him, but he and I got on quite well despite the odd occasion when he administered corporal to me. He would stride around the school, hands behind his back inspecting everything and everyone he passed. Often he would snap out general knowledge questions to keep you on your toes, and would be visible disappointed if they were answered correctly. I remember having to make one last visit to the school after I had left for good to return some library books and to pick up my leaving certificate.

He invited me into his office for a chat and we spent a good half-hour discussing my future and sucking Bon Bons. He informed me that as far as he could remember I was the only pupil who had answered all his questions correctly, and that it had become something of a challenge to him to catch me out. He shook my hand warmly and wished me luck in the future, as I was about to close the door he fired one last question at me. “Oh by the way can you tell me who wrote Black Beauty” I made a pretence of thinking very hard, scratched my chin and said “Anna Sewell Sir” He shook his head and smiled.

Break time found me on the carpet in front of the headmaster’s desk listening to Mrs Greenhalsh telling him what a hateful and disrespectful boy I was. She embellished her tale of the incident with lies, and threw in some unnecessary insults for good measure. While she ranted the headmaster looked at me with an expression that said “Are you sure you have the right boy?” Her assault went on and on until eventually the head put his hand up and told her that he would deal with me and she should retire to the staff room for a cup of tea.

She glared at me with hate in her eyes, turned to the headmaster and said, “The strap will knock that chip of his shoulder”. Again I couldn’t help myself, looking straight ahead I replied “There may be gravy down the front of my shirt, but my uniform is otherwise bereft of foodstuffs”. Up until that point I may well have got away with it, or at least just have to suffer a couple of hundred lines. But my calm and dignified response to this woman’s venom was proof positive that I had indeed transgressed earlier and my fate was cast.

I had given the head no alternative but to administer corporal punishment, six of the best on the hands and my solemn promise that I would in future keep my smart arse remarks to myself. I didn’t of course there were other episodes when I crossed teachers and was made to pay for it. The good teachers, (and there were many) made up for the ones who for one reason or another failed to engage children in a way that encouraged the learning process. I take my hat of to Teachers likes Mr Walmsley (Chemistry and Physics) Mrs Sidebottom (Biology) Mr Hanley (Arts and craft) and others who enjoyed imparting their knowledge to us over the years.

For those that are interested, the rumours about Miriam Hardcore were true.

No news is good news.

When I left the house yesterday morning I was bathed in glorious sunshine, I made a mental note to finish early and get some serious sunbathing done in the back garden. I like to relax now and again, drink a tin or two and just spend time thinking. I hadn’t gone far when I saw a bloody great black cloud the size of the Home Counties slowly making its way toward Manchester like the mother ship in “Independence Day”.

Typical, oh well scrub mental note and don work mindset instead, not easy to do when you hate work, well not hate it but it gets so boring. Hardly anything happens at Karting2000 which is why I wasn’t looking forward to updating the newsletter. I sat in the office staring at the walls desperately trying to come up with something that was mildly interesting. I thought about making something up, but you always get found out, unless of course you’re a tabloid newspaper then you can lie through your eye teeth and get away with it.

I decided to join the smokers outside in the sun, which had made an appearance again, I sat on the grassy knoll outside in the car park listening to them moan about being second class citizens because of the smoking ban. The sun was glorious again, it was warm, and bees were buzzing around the flowers under the trees. Time slipped by but try as I might I couldn’t think of anything even remotely newsworthy.

I called a mini meeting with Christine and Helen in the office who are supposed to have their fingers on the pulse so to speak and begged them to come up with something, anything even remotely interesting that I could perhaps pad out a little. They promised to get down to it and said they would get back to me ASAP. Well they didn’t, so I came up with something myself, gave them both a copy, asked them to check it for factual mistakes and left them to it.

An hour or so later I went to back to collect my copy and asked them what they thought, “Mmmmm very good, well done” said Christine whilst stuffing a bacon sarni in her mouth. “Yes, like it, knew you would think of something,” said Helen not even looking up, too busy with her MP3 player. “You think its ok then, not too far-fetched”, I looked her right in the eyes. “No, no its great, straight to the point, informative good news letter material” she lied.

This is what I had written:

Booking clerk Helen Moor disclosed today that she will never dance again after a horrendous accident involving a fork lift truck, a low loader with spectacle lift and a fully dressed Christmas tree. Speaking through tears after a double big toe amputation she said. “It was my own fault”. I was dazzled by the bright lights and as I stepped back to admire my work I tripped on the spectacle lift the guy had dropped to get a better look and before I knew it I had been forked from behind”. A spokesman for the hospital said that “the toes had been sheared off at the knee, Helen underwent several hours of micro surgery on both toes which were successfully re attached, but to the wrong legs”. When he was asked how that had happened the spokesman replied “Hey, it was a Friday, a busy day for us, unfortunately we only had one hit at this so we cant swap em back”.
Helen is currently on sick leave recuperating at home and spends most of her time looking through shoe catalogues. We wish her luck.

Police were called into the track earlier in the week to investigate the disappearance of two cases of black puddings and a case of instant custard from the pit-stop café. There were no signs of a forced entry, but despite inconclusive evidence they arrested Christine the office manager who was the only person with a key and who has a history of black pudding abuse going back to her days as a butcher in the merchant navy. “This has to be an inside job,” said the detective leading the case, we have sent a blouse with suspicious yellow stains to the lab for analysis, along with a black pudding knife discovered in the suspects pencil drawer. Bail has been set at fifty pence; friends are rallying round and hope to come up with the money before the trial date.

The managing director is still trying to get to the bottom of a mystery that has saddened us all. Shaking his head in disbelief at an emergency meeting held today with all employees, he demanded to know who it was that had left a log the size of a small dingy in the gents toilets. This is no accident he remonstrated, this was a wilful act of deficitus terrorism and I mean to root it out. The whole affair stinks of an inside job and my nose tells me the gents were targeted to throw us off the scent. It’s rumoured that the MD and the police are getting their heads together on this one.

Just shows you how much notice they take of me, I have a good mind to post it on the website.