Not the Trafford shopping centre.

One of the interesting things about running a shop in the suburbs was the wide variety of lunatics that frequented the place. The customers were wacky enough and although irritating to deal with were a necessary evil. There was also other shopkeeper's on the same block who felt the need to pop in on a regular basis and pal out with me as it were. There was Doreen who had a Flower shop and punctuated every other word with a sneeze (She was allergic to flowers) and dripped snot into roses and carnations as she lovingly fashioned floral tributes. Many a young girl presented with one of Doreen bouquets must have sniffed enthusiastically at it thinking “How sweet they smell, and so fresh too, they still have dew on them”. She was a homely looking girl but what an artist. .

Next door was the Lucky Hoe Chinese chippy ran by Mr Hee Hoe who unfailingly made gravy with the consistency of wood glue, he eventually hung himself after laying siege with a vicious looking chopper to a battalion of police officers hold up in his stockroom. The rumour was that his Cantonese lover had left him for a Scots gay rights activist with one leg who insisted on wearing spandex tops with a kilt. That episode hit him hard, but I think it was his fear of reprisals from disgruntled customers who had been sold meat and potato pie’s Hee Hoe had chucked in the fryer straight from the freezer.

One guy had threatened to return with his crew and launch him and his half-cooked pies through the window and that’s what tipped him over the edge I think. He phoned the Samaritans and threatened to batter himself, they tried to talk reason with him but when he screamed down the phone that he had his chopper out and was ready to use it, they had no alternative but to bring the law in. When the police arrived Hee Hoe answered the door to them naked except for a chief’s utility belt adorned with chip shop condiments that barely covered his modesty. The siege didn’t last long but before back up could get there Mr Hoe had joined the Chinese lanterns swinging in the window of the Lucky Hoe chippy.

There was fabulous Gloria the blonde secretary come assistant to the funeral director three shops further along the block who liked to spend her dinner hour in my shop several times a week. She complained that it was impossible to eat Mr Hoe’s gravy at the best of times but having to contend with the smell of formaldehyde and embalming fluid whilst eating a tray full of chips laced with wood glue was more than she could handle. I suggested she tell Hoe to hold the gravy but she said he splashed the stuff around with gay abandon and became very annoyed if you refused it. She could have used another chippy, but I think it was just an excuse to get into my shop and press her suit. However Gloria and the tale of "Does my bum look big in this skirt" will be the subject of another post.

Next door to the funeral directors was the bulb shop, a mysterious emporium that as far as I could gather sold every type of electric bulb ever made in the history of electric bulb making? How he survived I will never know he had no window display to speak of, just a sign that said BULBS in large red letters over the door, it didn't even light up. No one was ever seen going in or out of the place apart from the owner whose name nobody knew. He was simply known as the Bulb man and could be seen opening up in the morning and closing up at night. But the door to the shop was always locked and you had to press a buzzer to gain entrance. As far as I could tell nobody ever did he kept his bulbs to himself, until he eventually sold out to an international bulb consortium and relocated to the south of somewhere very expensive, obviously there is money in bulbs.

The most annoying of my fellow shopkeepers was a diminutive chap called Carl or Carlo, as he liked to be addressed. He was a self-taught hairdresser who had learned his trade on the heads of unsuspecting customers over the years, who had gone under the scissors and comb. They would watch in growing horror as he butchered their hair whilst he cheerfully chatted away behind them oblivious to the carnage he was committing. He had had his windows (and his face) smashed in many times by irate husbands who had dragged their crying wives back to his salon to complain and demand their money back. On these occasions Carlo would play his Italian card which was to speak in what he thought was an Italian accent, but really all he did was put an o on the end of every word.

He would rant on like a misunderstood artist whose every snip; every wave and curl had been dragged from his tortured body. It never did him any good the result was that fist would meet face and he would wind up on the floor clutching a busted hooter. His nose must have changed direction more times than a Tory government over the years. He would disappear for days after one of these episodes, licking his wounds in his home, which like his salon had pretensions of grandeur. He tried to keep the appearance of a high class establishment using the rejected and worn out fixtures bought at auction, or sold for pennies from the sales section of local papers.

I attended a dinner party at his house once, there was flock wallpaper everywhere, everything was plastic and mock. His dining room was a theme on ancient Greece with imitation alabaster busts on pedestals with fake ivy curling around them as though in some forgotten garden. There were gold swan necked lights over every picture that stuck out too far in rooms that didn’t have the space to accommodate them. There were so many in the hallway that one had to zig zag in order not to bang your head. In the living room he had a cheap rocking horse that had obviously been distressed to create the illusion that it was antique, and brass everywhere, far too much brass.

He asked me to install a security system at his home, apparently one irate husband whose wife had an amorous liaison with our hero had threatened to burn him out. Had he done so the place would have burned for days there was that much plastic in it. Carlo thought himself a bit of a Don Juan and to some extent used his business to curry favour with his clientele, it usually got him into trouble but on these occasions he would play the effeminate card to husbands convinced he had invaded their marital space. However this time it hadn’t worked, the threat was real, and one weekend along with a friend I found myself installing a burglar alarm and several cameras.

His bathroom although small and as overcrowded as the other rooms sported a double shower and was decked out in black tiles and tinted mirrors, the fixtures were gold plated and retro, but his bedroom was a revelation. It was furnished Hugh Hefnor style with a large bed and ceiling mirrors, there was pseudo antique bedside cupboards each adorned by an old white and gold bell telephone. But the real revelation came when my pal and I moved the bed aside to install the wiring for his panic button (Pretend gold of course).

Underneath his alter of love we found several books, “How to drive your lover wild in bed”, “Women are from Venus men are from mars”, “Sexual techniques that work”, “How to pick up girls” and “lovemaking for dummies”. There was also a large box containing close to twenty or so dildoes of various sizes and colours. Next to which was a smaller box containing fake phalluses of the strap on kind, some were obviously meant to be used in anger, but there were two that had a strange strap arrangement. My pal gingerly held one aloft between forefinger and thumb turning it one way then the other looking perplexed. Then realisation dawned on him; his eyes lit up as he triumphantly shouted “He wears this in his bloody pants when he’s out”. My pal now aware of Carlo’s secret waved the offending article around like D'Artagnan waving a sword declaring the object of his scorn a charlatan.

I told him to put things back how they were and not to breath a word of what we had seen, he said “Sure, my lips are sealed” but the smile on his face and the look in his eyes told me he couldn’t keep them sealed for very long. I made him promise he was reluctant to do so but he gave me his word. How long he kept it I don’t know.

Carlo still has his shop, he now wears a berry to cover his alapicia and occasionally when I pass I see him through the window working away at some poor buggers head intent on mischief. My shop became an Internet café after I closed down, then a law office of some kind.

One interesting note of my time there was that as a child when asked what I wanted for Christmas or birthdays by my parents, I would always ask for a box of electrical junk from Mazels Radio on London road near Piccadilly station. I loved to mess around with bits of wire and electrical equipment. Once when my Father and I made a trip into Middletown to visit relatives we stopped of at a branch of Mazels on Rochdale road. Inside my eyes lit up as I looked around at all the second hand radios and wireless parts for sale. My Dad put two shillings towards my spends and I bought a box of the crap I loved so much. Clutching my purchase I told the man behind the counter that I was going to have a shop like his one day.

The weird thing is that I did have a shop like his, in fact it was that very shop that I had been in all those years ago, 795 Rochdale road.

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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.

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.

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.

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.

Thank you Dianne.

I’m normally whinging about one thing or another in this blog, usually its about people and the way they behave, but this morning my faith in humanity was restored by a rather attractive young lady in a green UV. I had travelled but a few mile when as I approached a very large and busy roundabout my car spluttered to a halt. There were of course several impatient drivers behind me gesticulating in a very annoyed way convinced that I had planned the whole thing just to inconvenience them.

I tried to start the car several times, but it was obvious that I had run out of petrol, the gage was on empty and the little orange light was blinking happily away as though mocking me and saying “I told you so”. I attempted the starter motor trick, turning the engine over whilst its in gear to try and drag myself across the roundabout lights to the first exit, without success.

Cars were roaring past me there drivers scowling at me for blocking the way, the green UV driven by the rather attractive young lady passed me on the inside, she looked out of her window at me and smiled. White teeth, doe eyes and dancing hair was about to come to my rescue. She pulled onto the side exit, got out of her car, run over to me and started to push the car. As I reached safety a police car pulled along side and asked if he could be of any assistance. I admitted my embarrassment at running out of petrol, and seeing that nothing exciting was happening went on his way.

Meanwhile my Angel of the road told me to hang on whilst she popped home, she would she insisted be right back to take me to a garage and get petrol. She was as good as her word, within minutes she roared up beckoning me to get in.

We had a pleasant chat about breaking down and running out of petrol, which she told me she had done several times and could still remember the feeling of helplessness until someone offered assistance, and the relief when that assistance was offered by a complete stranger. This she trilled was a way to pay back that kindness all be it by proxy.

At the garage she waited patiently whilst I filled my can up, then sped me back to my car, she also waited until I had got my car running (Just in case) before resuming her business. We waved as we drove off in different directions and for the rest of my journey I had a wide smile on my face, happy and grateful that there are still people as nice and as helpful as Dianne, my heroin.