The Freak Box

In my head the summer ends as soon as I return to work from whatever hot climate I have laid it for a fortnight.  As a modern Dad I have another week off before the kids go back to school as Jen returns to work. My only real responsibility during this time is to make sure the kids don’t burn the house down.  

This is that week…. ‘Dad Week 2017’

This isn’t my forte, not my thing.  I love my kids more than anything but I’m little use at entertaining them.  Luckily the younger years are over.  Gone are the soft play centre nightmares, the tedious cinema visit with hordes of brats watching substandard non-Pixar animation, the herding of the cats onto public transport and the crayons in the pizzeria.  Now they entertain themselves with electronics or neighbours and my role tends to involve pointing the eating in a healthy direction.

With time on my hands I start preparing for the winter.  I know this sounds drastic but I’m a seasonal planner.  I like to be ready for all of nature’s scenarios and winter is coming regardless of the spectre of the fucking hateful ‘Indian summer’ where the coat balance is destroyed by climate change.

I start in the loft where I see if there is anything I can chuck out since last year. The loft is pushing maximum density but as usual nothing can be binned.  Everything has been deemed ‘special’ and so I am instructed to add to to the carnage with more ‘special’ items in the shape of Action Men and vehicles that no one actually ever played with.  

While I’m in the loft I reposition the winter stuff so it’s in handy reach of the door saving time should there be an emergency Halloween Party of Christmas Tree erection at short notice.  (By the way, ‘Christmas Tree erection’ is an action and not a physical state following the positioning of the final baubel). 

The loft is my responsibility as no one else will enter it as it’s dark, dirty and spider filled.  The storage is now only the eaves so you can add ‘tight’ to the adjectives,  in fact it’s tight like the tunnels under stalag 17, a real ball ache to move in.  Jen first entered the loft upon completion of its conversion into a bedroom and stated that she didn’t see what the issue was.  She avoided 10 years of semi light, dust and crud and the lottery of where you trod… joist or plasterboard?  High tension.  I once fell out of the loft hatch as I didn’t see the hole due to a landing light bring turned off by a well meaning kid saving the planet.   I am their clown.

The eaves are now like the door to the back of Argos behind which a load of shit you don’t need is stored.  I am merely the warehouseman in charge of entering the door to retrieve items that were either never required, not required now or thought long lost. Once a week I’m in there acting on some spurious request for paperwork from 2004 or a photo from 1987.  I’ve found things in there that I don’t even remember buying let alone storing.  It is out of control…

This year I have another task outside of the usual winter ‘nesting’ namely the redecoration of the boy’s bedroom.  The rules of this house are that I do destruction, clear up, storing and painting.  I don’t do preparation as it doesn’t meet the necessary standard laid down by the boss.  I can’t be trusted with prep but am expected to stand on an inappropriate ladder grasping an overfilled paint kettle while ‘cutting-in’ to a high standard which will be scrutinised in silence at a later time.  Luckily this suits me and I make light work of his room ensuring that it will be wipable throughout the ‘one sock’ years.

The main winter task in the sorting of the shed and ludicrously named ‘Summer House’ which is a bigger shed with more windows initially designed for relaxing in but now filled with crap that you need for 45 minutes a summer such as punch bags, football and kites…. y’know the other ‘special’ stuff that doesn’t fit in the loft.

Sheds are massively important in my life.  They are the hub of masculinity.  They need to be filled with weaponry you would associate with a post apocalyptic tundra overrun with the undead.  Slashing, cutting and bludgeoning weapons must be instantly accessible when the door is open.  Tools need to be in boxes similar to an 80′ architects briefcase, must be racked in descending order of height and usefulness and in some cases marked with stickers saying ‘Power drill – heavy torque’ or ‘precision sander #1’ just in case another man needs to see my electric power tool minerals.

The shelves need to be specific to garden, decorating and electrical and you must have a million screws, nails and multiple types of rawl plug none of which marry up and at least 2 saws you never use still in their cardboard sheaths.  If you don’t have this stuff whether you need it or not you are nothing.  

I have an angle grinder set, lump hammer and 12lb sledgehammer which have been used once to break up 6ft of paving.  I recently found a heat gun that has never been used and a glue gun used once incorrectly in panic.  There are socket sets for never fixing a car and wire strippers in case the electrician I employ can’t find his own as I appear to think it necessary to employ the trade and provide the tools. Madness maybe but a necessary madness. 

I’m overjoyed with this year’s set up.  It’s like the gun room Arnie has in ‘Commando’ with the electronic lock where he runs to when the hoods come for him and ‘Chenny’. It is magnificent and full proof shoukd Jen need to find anything before she returns it to the  wrong location. I am a fucking  genius when it comes to sorting shit out and she is the barometer.

I return to the house happy and triumphant and celebrate by making Spaghetti Bolognese and having a cup of tea and a biscuit. 

….And then the phone rang….

My landline rarely rings, it’s only function is the need for the intergoogles, so when it rings it can only be Jen’s 105 year old grandmother, Jen’s Dad, a cold call or chillingly my father.

I check the clock,  1614 hours.  It can only be my Dad who, for some reason has an uncanny knack of knowing when I’m off work.  Of course, I could leave this call but why should I? I live here and there is a possibility that I could be missing out on some PPI or be reminded about an accident I never had.

I pick it up and am instantly assaulted verbally.  

There’s a brief explanation as to who it is in the form of ‘it’s your Dad’ . Talking in the third person is the the classic sign of a nut-job and so he’s off to a convincing start.  I didn’t need this information as I knew it was him, the ring gave it away…the ring and my rising blood pressure and sudden need to smash up my own living room. 

After confirming his existence I ask him what he wants.   

We no longer talk as a conventional father and son would and haven’t done for about 15 years.  We usually have these short-burst violent conversations ending in extended periods of non communication. We haven’t spoken properly since about 2 weeks after the death of my mother when he was possibly the worst human on the planet at that point.  There’s been a few contenders since but he’s still in the frame but little did I know that he was about to surpass his own very high standards of cuntery on a quiet Tuesday afternoon.

‘I want my property back’ he spits….’the property you stole’.

The property in question is some old photos that my Mum gave to me prior to her death.  These pictures are all of random holidays and events and only came in to my possession as she was going to throw them out.  I suggested that she gave them to me and I would scan them so they weren’t lost forever.  They hold no real value…. but this fucker ain’t getting them as he doesn’t deserve them like he didn’t deserve my Mum.

I give him the bad news in a calm, deliberate manner  totally ignoring every urge to unleash the fury placed genetically within me from the Devil himself on the end of the phone.  In some ways I’m Hellboy.  The Spawn of The Goat yet desperate not to bring on the destruction of mankind in favour of beer, chicks and hot dogs.

He don’t like my answer much as it disobeys a direct order from the Patriarch but fuck him , I’m no longer 12. He then dishes out a torrent of abuse which if I wasn’t the recipient of I may have well clapped. 

Where shall I start?

It would appear that I have always been a ‘wanker’ or ‘pig’ who he lost control over when I was 18. At that point he reckons I started poncing off other people in order to survive.  These ‘other people’ seem to be my ex girlfriends who’s names he gets wrong and in the wrong order.  Without them I was nothing, ‘not a man’, ‘unable to survive’ as having a joint mortgage is a failing of manhood apparently.  This fucker never had a mortgage as booze was more important than bricks and mortar but no matter…we move on.

Next up I’m a liar.  No specific examples of the so-called lies are given other than everything I say now, then and in the future.  For all my failings and there are a few, lying ain’t one of them.  I’m almost too honest and made many a mistake sticking to the family motto of:

“Ní dóigh leat é, a rá”

….which roughly translated from the Gaelic is:

“Don’t think it, say it”

(For clarification we are only vaguely Irish and there is no family motto as there is no family.  I added it as a break in the misery.  If there were a family motto it would probably be ‘Shut the fuck up’ or ‘what did you say?’)

My honesty is out there.  I’ve seen experienced operatives weep from facts delivered face to face, women cringe from straight talking that would never work, children cower when things explained plainly.  If you want a straight answer to a real question I will give you it but you might not like it.  I’ve made it my business to do this since adulthood so there is no ambiguity and my words actually mean something.

Of course I’ve lied, everyone lies at some point whether it be to not hurt feelings, pretend Father Christmas is coming, that someone elses baby is beautiful, to let a waiter know that the food was lovely or thr existence of a family motto.  It’s human nature but as a rule I keep it as real as possible.

‘Liar’ is followed by the more disturbing ‘Thief’.  Hmmm….. that’s a big word.  A word worthy of a smack to the mouth…minimum.  It certainly ain’t a word you throw around for a laugh. After the word ‘Stinking’ is added to ‘Thief’ I decide to delve a little deeper to establish the nature of the alleged thievery.

Inevitably this comes down to money and the few pennies Mum managed to cobble together far enough away from the old man’s whiskey glass wielding hands and the pub we believe he was keeping afloat somewhere in North London.

There’s nothing sinister going on here.  I distributed the pennies according to the instructions I was given by my Mum as the appointed executor of the estate. At all times everyone affected was informed of the actions taken.  

But now he’s not happy and I’ve ‘filled my pockets’ and ‘stolen’ the money completely forgetting that he received a sizable chunk but has probably spent it on shit. Now he wants what was left for Mum’s grandchildren.  He explains through various insults that I have it wrong and that money is his and never meant to be given to the young for their futures and was supposed to be used for a car but as the driver of that vehicle is dead he should receive the cash.  Almost like a prize…

Luckily he is faced by a less aggressive and evil version of himself and so I simply fact blast the stroker into silence.  There is absolutely no way any money sent to the grandkids is being reallocated to him to piss down the kharzi.  I stand firm which is relatively easy and simply involves the repeat of the single word ‘No’. As I was brought up in a house of professional, stubborn, nasty fuckers of which he was King I am effectively the Sorcerers Apprentice but with added calm and so he is now floundering.

If you know me you will realise that I’m pretty on top of stuff like this and so after dealing with the funeral and all my Mum’s affairs I have a meticulous audit trail with all receipts and transfers recorded.  I actually planned for this exact moment which I predicted 14 months ago when the fake tears of this monster dried up. 

I’ve been like this for years, anal to the point of lunacy with the memory of an elephant.  

It all began when I started playing Amateur football and kept a record (initially in print) of the 676 matches, 275 goals (only 8 headers, 2 in finals), 5 red cards (3 for fighting, 2 for foul and abusive language), 6 concussions, 7 lost semi finals, 3 cup wins, 2 league titles, 2 Golden boots and one brother suspended from the club.. you get the idea.  

I’m not worried about the threat given of a police investigation into theft or a misappropriation of funds which this conversation has now descended into and he knows it and so he comes out with this pearler before hanging up the phone.  

“…I hope you die screaming….”

*click

I listen to the dialling tone for a moment before clicking the phone off.  

This is a line he used to say to my Mum during rows and arguments and he effectively got his wish with her so it cuts to the core.

This is the sort of insult that stays with you.  I’ve had all the others and due to my upbringing, combatative nature, employment and location I expect and accept them.  Not this though.  This is beyond the pale and from the lips of my father.  This is beyond human acceptability and something you could only say to someone threatening your family. 

The main thing is it was the last straw.  Why would I want myself to be associated with a person like this? And even more pressing why would I want my kids to be involved with this person because eventually he’ll be saying this stuff to them.

For years my Mum suggested the old man had a screw loose but I don’t believe that.  He has had enough professional assessment of his swead over the years to fill a medical conference and at no point has anyone said he is anything other than lucid.

What you get from my Dad is horror and the ability the crush people mentally.  He is a mind bully and always has been.  He single handedly destroyed all aspects of what could have been a slightly functional family through his own twisted mentality which is far more damaging than any slap you could ever give.

My Mum had this shit for decades and in the middle we, the sons and brothers got it, the brain washing of fear and hate.  This made us all slightly mad and uncompromising resulting in no communication and more dislike and hate of each other.  In the end my Mum almost became him with similar traits of aggression, jealousy and spite.  That was the saddest part of her death… the Mum I knew and loved was gone and was replaced by a carbon copy of the thing she disliked the most.

The death of a parent would usually bind a family together but it just made an unbearable situation worse if that was possible.  Nobody gave a fuckin inch as we were trained to never step back, it was the ultimate standoff.

I struggled badly after Mum died.  It is almost impossible to explain loss if you haven’t actually experienced it.  The simplest things become magnified into huge emotional struggles.  The lack of a phone call or birthday card, the random unwanted visit or advice on parenthood, all gone forever.  I went through a phase of seeing Mum in all kinds of places  even though that was impossible.  It’s amazing how similar old women can look when you are suffering deep grief.

In the wake of all this I was referred for Grief Counselling with a lovely Irish woman.  I was very sceptical but Jen insisted I went as she was sick of me banging on about my Dad as the issue.  I agreed as I was sick of her telling me to just ‘forget it’.

I had three sessions and it was apparent immediately that I was right and he was the issue.  Towards the end of the final session  (I decided it was the last session, an endless amount were available) she asked me if I wanted to see my Dad again to which I said ‘No’.  I waited for the big reveal, the pearl of wisdom where she would explain to me that engaging with him was the answer but to my shock she said:

“Then don’t, stop beating yourself up and move on with your own family”

Even a professional could find no positive…

The level of nastiness and hate within my Dad is incredible and seems to revolve around a belief that as he was involved in your birth he owns you forever. If I thought I would ever think that or say such a thing as he said to me this week to one of my kids I would take myself away from them forever. He thrives off it, it is the fuel that keeps him going.  But no more, this well is dry and so now there will be nothing for him from me except emptiness and the end.

Anyway, if you think that is depressing think on…. Next time I’ll be talking about The Arsenal and my association with it for 40 years and where we go after the humiliation at the hands of the Mickey Mousers…

More crud later.. .

We start the second week in Portugal with a trip to the market town of Loulé.  If I’m not walking around a market at some point on holiday I’ll assume I’ve been abducted.  This is standard operating procedure. Jen loves a market and I am merely man and therefore limply compliant and the carrier of cash.

Like heroin Loulé is very Moorish. Turrets and scimitars are everywhere.  There also seems to be a preoccupation with Cork in the form of hats, shoes and bags which is a phenomena I never knew existed.

Loulé is old school with cobbled lanes, a museum and an old church.  The main drag is a bit more modern and the food market is found in a large central building.  Outside this building sit the Bikers.  Comedy bikers rather than ‘ you looking at my old lady? I’ll stab you in the throat’ bikers.  They all own shiny hogs rather than anything you should be scared of with lots of preening and cum-catcher taches rather than a bowie knife down the back of the jeans. I brush them aside and enter the market.

Inside the market is split in two.  The first half is all chilled sherry and wine, lovely cooked ham and leather bangles while the second half is fresh fish. 

It’s 94 degrees.  I’m in a non refrigerated municipal building where dead fish are being sold.  It is humming.  It’s truly horrendous and cloying to the point of gaggery.  The boy and I make a swift exit to an adjacent outdoor market selling tat.

We breathe in the cool air and the boy leaves me to find humself a drink.  I mooch about looking at the stalls.  It’s all fairly low level but friendly enough….and then I see it…

The Witch.

Through the crowd, hunched with the lumpy spine of a cat after being hit by a car, it appears. She must be about 150 years old. She’s wearing a head scarf off kilter has a lazy eye and a rictus grin She shuffles with a walking a stick which looks like someone’s hip bone, is about three and a half feet tall and looks like a less attractive Yoda. She passes through with the crowd dispersing like a shoal of fish when breached by a Tiger shark.  She is oozing rural Portugal from every crag. It’s the kind of hick that could break a pigs neck with a stern look back in her 30’s.  She’s no longer in her 30’s, she is now as old as time and smelling like it with skin like a well worn leather chesterfield in a gentlemen’s club in Pimlico.

She saunters into my fighting arc and I go all ‘side on’ to minimise the target should she lunge for my throat. She needs my iron rich blood to feed her crispy ravagged carcas in order to survive another decade.

She wafts past and straight behind the ramp of a fruit and veg stall without anyone stopping her.  She starts to stroke and finger the produce which forces my stomach to churn…she bends forward, a feat defying gravity given the throbing hump atop her rickerty spine and I am suddenly in line to get a full view of the oldest sand sniffers I’ve ever had the misfortune to spot. These are Snoopy noses from a bygone age, piping bags after completion of a particularly elaborate wedding cake… they are empty and wouldn’t feed a hungry sparrow. 

Perhaps she has a nice personality but I’m not seeing it from the evidence so far.  She’s more likely living in a gingerbread house gnawing on the bones of long lost kids or dicing up a frog’s eye for the pot.

I spot the boy and insist we return to the relative safety of the pungent fish market and the never ending haggling Jen is engaged over some leather bangles, either that or I stay here, find a bucket of water a slay the Witch of Loulé and face incarceration in a flimsy Portuguese prison.

..Fly you fools….

The back streets of Loulé are beautiful, idyllic and are really the reason why you would visit. It’s like when you first see a Cornish fishing village and you realise that postcards are sometimes perfect depictions.  This is like that except with heat … marvellous.

Then it is beach time…..my nightmare.  I hate beaches, always have.  Messy, uncomfortable dirty places filled with over ripe people burning.  I’d rather be by a pool with a bar even if it means swimming in a the human soup that is the shared pool.  However once more my opinion is irrelevant and so I find myself loaded up like a pack horse walking on hot deep sand towards hours of misery.

It’s not very busy confirming my view that most people see this as utter shit.  A few diehards are near me, dark mahogany sunseekers soaking up the power of the fireball.

I lie on a bumpy beach towel with a dead arse and sand between my broken toes.  All four of us are huddled under two small parasols as the blistering heat too dangerous to sit directly in.  I look around and spot the cool box.  I whip out a Super Bock mini, 200ml of lifesaving man juice only to find the fucking thing is warm like tea. The cool box has failed it’s primary function and needs to be smashed and added to the plastic sea before me to choke another type of humpback.

I’ve always hated beaches. Too many shit times in the wind, rain, sun and sleet  (Blackpool). 

The worst time was in Futreventura when I was with some lunatic who loved beaches so much so that she managed to get me on a beach primarily but not exclusively for nudists.  I sat there and she lay there like a spatchcock chicken.  To disassociate myself with her I rolled over on the sunbed and was almost embedded in the junk of a rather overly nourished German woman as she bent over next to me.  It was like looking into the face-hugger pod in “Alien” seconds before the explosion of violence.  The old chestnut of a ‘badly packed kebab’ loomed large…..very large with aromavision.

You can stick beaches right up your hoop…..I’m not having it.  Of course this view wasn’t aired on the actually beach and I was forced to endure a mere 4 hours before we were released for good behaviour.

Back at the ranch we decide to eat in and use my associates BBQ from the secret ‘family cupboard’ which he has kindly given me the key for.  This Aladdin’s cave is filled with booze and supplies which I can use with instructions  that I replace what I use.  Of course I do this plus as I’m partial to the over-the-top gesture to boost my standing in society.

I get the BBQ out find it ain’t no Homebase shoddy effort made from partially flammable metal, this is a Weber.  It looks like a monster truck all shiny and robust.  I feel like a King.

We knock up some kebabs and tentatively use the beast only to find that I have forgotten to remove a part from the bottom which was simply there while it was in storage. This has now melted due to falling embers.  I have soiled his family cook out kit.  

The part in question appears to be a briquette scoop which you use if you are too scared to get your hands dirty and also appears to be completely unavailable either in Portugal or on-line.  Some bloke in Cleethorpes has one for sale for a fiver but he won’t deliver abroad as he’s from Cleethorpes and so scared of the modern postal system.

This is a quandary so we leave the apartment in order to hunt down the required scoop in an area which, to my knowledge, only has one cash machine and no post box…. I’m not optimistic.

The second BBQ retailer I stumble across is manned by a very smiley lady with perfect English.  To date I am yet to speak to anyone who actually only speaks Portuguese. I’m sure the Witch of Loulé would never have uttered a word of the Queens but I weren’t keen on an interaction that would have put me in the vicinity of her let alone her herring laced breath.

Smiley woman approaches me and seems concerned with my situation.  She knows what we need and disappears behind a door returning with the exact item I need.  She has saved me.  I pull out a stinking, sweaty wad of Euros as no amount of money will be enough to purchase this essential part of 21st  century outdoor cooking.

‘No charge’ are the beautiful words from her sweet mouth followed by ‘enjoy your holiday’. I could have hugged her.  

I’m not in to slagging off Britain with stories of overseas generosity as I love my country and see our rudeness as a thing tourists come for but this is the second time in 8 days that I’ve been taken aback in a situation that didn’t deserve assistance.  Well done the Portuguese….

This holiday has mostly been taking in from the poolside.  It was a lovely pool.  Proper rectangle rather than some odd shape to make the resort look interesting when we only want the water. The pool has a lovely bar where I have spent a great time relaxing with a beer or a cider to escape the searing heat. The pool brings a lot of ammo to my gunbarrel eyes.  

First up we have the ex cockney footballer with the two knee scars ‘proving’ he played.  He talks to anyone prepared to listen about this but he’s wary of me as my face says ‘don’t be a mug’.  At one point he walks past me on the phone and says ‘yeah I’ll triple that amount of money..’ while looking at me, winking, and mouthing ‘awight mate’.  I remain non awed as a swift kick to the scar would surely incapacitate the stroker. These are the things you learn on the amateur football pitch, not a well time tackle but simply the targeting of scars and fresh bandages to reduce the opposition to ashes.

Bullying Dad rocks up with two little kids and a wallflower wife.  He says things to the kids like ‘when my lips are moving and I’m looking at mummy you don’t interupt’.  Kids interupt. Little kids, medium kids, big kids…its a thing they do… live with it.

This bloke also has his own flippers a true sign of massive poncery unless you whip then out in a boat with an aqualung.  Grown men with flippers in a swimming pool are unacceptable.  I can only imagine the justification for this:

“..I like my flippers Angela, I need my flippers and I will be bringing my flippers so help me God…I swear it on my children’s eyes !!!!…”

Prick.  He’s also a bloke with an overly large lens on his camera which he uses to take pictures of his kids swimming which seems excessive for some Holiday snaps never to be viewed again.

Most of the nut jobs can be found at the bar. I’m at the bar.  The bar is where it’s at.  

One afternoon I’m situated directly in the middle on a high stool.  To my left is an old Welshman with a comedy nose and moustache combo.  He is alone and drinking a small beer as is the name in this bar for a half, I’m minding my own business while I sweat my cobs off with a large beer.

My holiday routine was to read, listen to music sunbathe, play with the kids in the pool (my kids) and then go to the bar to make notes to write these ramblings.  I’m not interested in in-depth conversations unless I engage with the barman who should be my only friend due a centuries old mutual assistance programme of merriment for money.

The Welshman catches my eye and intimates to the football on the TV.

“I see you are a Spurs fan”.  

I instantly put him straight and immediately regret it as the barman clearly is a fan of that rabble and now sees me as the enemy.  I inform Welshie that I am the other half of North London and I’m then forced to listen to an anecdote regarding a former Arsenal player at a golf tournamrnt that is so tedious that I nearly walk out on him mid sentence.  

I’m not a rude fucker so I smile and simply ‘zone out’ even when he enters my immediate area to whisper obscenities to enhance the story to a ‘blokey’ level.  He’s clearly short of mates and reveals his entire work and family history in a short 3 minute burst with me just nodding and randomly laughing at inappropriate moments to see if he actually gives a shit.

I am saved when a local and a Swede who appear to know him and want to talk to him come to the bar.  I am now redundant as a verbal punch bag and happily go back to watching the football.  

All three leave after the Welshman taps me on the arm and says he’ll see me ‘again’ and I politely smile and hold up a hand in a fake gesture of new found friendship…..we won’t interact again….ever.

Before the main act I’m randomly joined by some blond bloke who wants a chat.  He’s a Chelsea fan so may as well have spat directly in my face and stole my beer however I’m on holiday so keep a lid on it.  

In true newbie Chelsea fan fashion he tells me that he enjoys going to Fulham more than Chelsea instantly proving that he’s not a Chelsea supporter at all but, in fact, an idiot.  We have a frantic chat about the price of football and after a handshake he leaves me to go see his blah, blah, blah I couldn’t give a fuck, tell someone who cares…

During this conversation two bald, tattooed fuckwits enter and sit directly next to me at the bar.  Here we go….. Scotchmen..

Both these blokes are considerably over refreshed with the younger one being absolutely mangled to the point of falling off the stool and into me. I prepare for the worse…..a conversation. Here it comes preceded by a nudge…

‘…hey!!… you….Big Man!!….’

‘Big Man’ is scotch for ‘Fat Bastard’.  You know it, he knew it and I knew it. It is internationally recognised as the Celtic opening greeting when either starting a fight or avoiding one.  I put this to a friend of mine that I met up with on this trip.  He rightly pointed out that ‘Big Man’ is far better than ‘wee man’ which is only said with contempt and not a hint of fear.

I turn to my new N.E.D associate with my most arrogant London English look and note he is smiling with a few stumps visible making his tongue look like a prisoner. He points at the screen.. 

‘…yer… (points at me)….ar yer a Wist Am Cont?…’

The entire bar stiffens. The piped europop ceases… Children run….women weep…our oasis has been invaded by The Barbarians of the C-Bomb. The barman watches….

Focus and calm is required here.  ‘Begbies’ senior and junior are waiting for a response and the old one, bald, craggy and wearing massive shades, looks particularly interested in whatever I’m about to rustle up.. 

” No, No, No my toothless haggis eating numbskull, I am a follower of The Arsenal Football Club from London, Seat of power and home to the ruler of your barren nation”

…something like that anyway…. 

This throws them both and I’m met with laughter and a stream of conversational vowels where the only recognisable words are ‘cont’, ‘fook’ and ‘clunge’.  

At this point the owner of the bar, a very friendly Englishmen steps in and informs these two that no swearing is allowed in the bar as there are kids floating about.  The younger one looks at me and says:

“…is tha cont reet? Ama fuckin swerrin?…”

I reply in the affirmative and he says ‘cont’ again before they both leave mid pint (worst crime of the lot) explaining that they are scotch and so blameless.

A calm returns to the bar and I am once again alone with Super Bock.

You may be under the false impression that I had a bad holiday.  I didn’t, I had a fantastic holiday but you can always find fun in the public which is why I started this blog.

Portugal is a beautiful place full of friendly accommodating people and stunning beaches. The weather was the best I’d ever had abroad and my colleagues apartment and the resort it was on were both magnificent. The downside was the cost and, surprisingly, the food which were both expensive and average in equal measure. 

Now I sit at home on the edge of a return to work looking at Jen wrapped in a throw on the sofa listening to the rain smash against the window.. .

Bollocks..

More stuff in time….

Holidays.  I’m not really a fan.  Shipping your life to a new location for two weeks seems like a massive ball-ache to me no matter where you go to ‘relax’.  Whenever I’ve returned I’m generally skint and tired with few long term good memories.  Football tours, stag weekends, family holidays, they all do the same for me….basically little.

This all started when I was a kid.  Fueding parents begrudgingly taking us away to low level venues in Cornwall was the standard.  There’s nothing wrong with Cornwall at all but some of the venues we stayed at were poor.  

I remember a particularly bad one in the garden of a mechanics house in Hayle where we were surrounded by old tires and petrol tanks.  My mum went mental but we remained there as we had made it all the way there by car and so were captives.  The perils of Daltons Weekly where all you get is a well positioned photo and a weekly price prior to sending the deposit to show commitment.

These parental trips were of there time.  They mostly involved sitting on luke warm, windswept beaches where pater would dump us prior to finding himself a pub to drink in alone or bully the locals. 

Then there were the excursions.

A trip to a castle where we were once shepherded back to the car while being shouted at for standing to close to the edge of a battlement after we ‘were warned’.  I recall sitting outside a British Legion in the rain in Falmouth with my Mum on one occasion while the old man drank within.  No women allowed but his attendance was essential.  I also recall an entire day spent in the holiday home looking out the window at the rain for no other apparent reason than that’s what the old man fancied doing or the full blown argument in a shop on a seafront after my Dad insisted on purchasing a portable hot plate so Mum could cook burgers in a beach shack.  Rightly, she refused and all hell broke loose in a shop on holiday… glory days indeed.

I won’t slum it now and neither will my tribe.  If you’re going on holiday go nuts and laugh a lot.

So here I am.  Portugal. The Algarve. The only hoy plates will be my flip flops.

I wasn’t going to write a series of blogs about this trip as it’s a bit sensitive but then I thought fuck it, I’m on holiday….I can do what I want.

The sensitivity comes from the fact that the accommodation is owned by a colleague I’ve worked with for 14 years and I’m keen not to upset or embarrass him.  Fear not sweet Northern Prince the apartment and complex is of high quality and meets the stringent standards that Jen demands. I have nothing but plaudits for this place, the facilities and the staff all of which are fantastic.

Let’s start from the beginning.  We flew from Southend Airport a place so deserted and punter free that I suspected I was in some kind of Zombie apocalypse where I might be required to learn how to fly a plane. When we arrived we were the only people at the check-in desk, a far cry from our previous trip to Spain where I was one of thousands standing in line fighting for a boarding pass before the scrutiny of a surly check-in dolly looking for extra wedge due to s bag being a gram over weight.

We make it through swift enough and head for a prolonged stay in the departure lounge where like proper gypsies we eat pre made egg sarnies much to the embarrassment of the kids. 

The airport is airport dull and bland with nothing of note to report.  On the upside it is almost empty meaning that I can freely move through duty free ignoring everything and complaining to myself that the sunglasses are overpriced and toblerones used to be bigger.

I head to look at the runway and to a face to face with my nemesis, the plane.  God I hate flying.  I figure if I look at it long enough I will become one with it Like Cherokee Indian and eagle….

Much to my shock they are not refuelling a rickety beast with logs and I’m confronted by a shiny orange and white plane looking rather new and robust.  I stare into its windscreen, we become one and it realises I am its King…

I return to the tribe and drag  them Into the Bar To kill some time before the flight.  Jen, who is not used to unscheduled pub visits nurses half a Strongbow for 2 hours while I sink G like a bloke about to die in a plane crash….

The flight itself is smooth and uneventful as usual although I did notice that the female staff we infinitely more masculine than the men playing completely into the hands of the comedy writers stereotype.  As usual I had the traditional  Bloody Mary and was asked if I wanted vodka in it… what kind of ship were these jokers running?

We land and get the hairdryer treatment before  decamping to a bendy bus to the terminal.  There must be a better word than ‘terminal’ when planes are involved surely?  How about ‘safe zone’ or ‘happy place’ or simply ‘ground zero’? Ok maybe not ‘ground zero’ but something else.

We then hit the first problem on Portuguese soil.  Passport Control or ‘Brexit revenge’ as it will now be known.  It took an hour to get through with a few hard yet bored looking fuckers in uniforms slowly scanning shit while us, the pasty, queue like good Englanders… You fucker Farage.. . I hope you get your Cherman passport Obersturmbannfürher…. you deserve it.

We get picked up by a bloke holding a sign with Jen’s name on and after 25 minutes I’m in my colleagues rather splendid apartment.  All is good but there is no scoff….. to the facilities we head!!

I enter the pool bar area of this complex and have my first Interaction with the Portuguese.  Lovely bloke. No food available but he keeps the kitchen open especially for us. This would never happen in England.  We are a nation of shopkeepers but closed means closed…filth.

Years ago when I was a kid I came out of a chip shop after school with my bag of chips and saw the bus I needed.  I ran with the chips and  got to the doors of the bus as the driver closed them.  I tapped politely on the doors and the driver, who from memory looked like the lead singer of 70’s novelty act ‘Mud’ resplendent in aviator shades, mullet and fringe, smiled, laughed shook his head and pulled away with me standing there.  I was incandescent with 12 year old rage. I binned the chips without touching them and attempted to race the bus to the next stop, as I’m running I’m briefly parallel to the driver who is laughing likes a maniac and staring at me… he pulls away and goes straight past the next stop leaving me chipless and walking home.  This is the kind of service I expect.

We have a reasonable snack and I ignore the €50 cost as I feel he did us a favour however this was merely a taste of the expense yet to come.

Next morning we head to the pool and have a fun day.  I’ve never been a beach person, too messy, and so the pool suits me fine. At this point we have no car so decide to eat out in the early evening at a beach side eatery. 

We arrive about 1830 hours to find enough empty seats to fill us with hope.  

I’m then informed by a very serious fucker that I should have booked.  This tends to be standard when a venue is attempting to create a mythical or legendary status even when my eyes see enough empty tables to accommodate my mob 4 times over.  Unsurprisingly they find us a table within a minute under the threat that we need to be out in 2 hours before the beautiful people arrive as it is reserved.  Presumably if I book a table on a Monday for the Friday night everyone inbetween gets the warning to leave by the time it is required… available is available…end of. 

We sit and I survey the scene.

It’s villian heavy with lots of tattoos on show and plastic women with expensive racks, flowing white dresses and chunky gold bangles and necklaces.  The walls are covered with photos of D list celebs and footballers enjoying a drink in the venue.  I see two Arsenal footballers in one of the pictures…. these same two players opened the local Milkshake shop near my house in London so I ain’t feeling too special.

We are given menus and the prices are extortionate but we are hungry and now trapped unless I go catatonic and shuffle out in silence.

I order my first steak in 8 months which arrives too swiftly to be enjoyed.  Nothing worse than being smashed through your dinner in record time in order for the owner to fill your seat with a more sparkly human who will bring him grovelling circa photo opportunity.

The plate before me is hardly inspiring.  There are no Masterchef micro herbs to make gurning professional eater Greg Wallace lose his muck.  It’s simply a slab of flesh with a wet sauce brushed with a hint of mushroom.  Fries accompany it  (although I’m sure I read ‘sauté’ potatoes) but not even a sniff of a cucumber or clump of cress keep it company in the side salad department.  It is bereft of greenery.  I finish the steak and feel as satisfied as Gillian Taylforth’s old man in a layby with a random stomach ache when the polis tap on the window. I might give up steak for good after this as I’ve realised it isn’t essential in my life.

We have a bottle of house Rosé with the meal, which was gone quick due to endless refilling to shuffle me out and I’m swiftly brought the bill with almost a finger pointing to the door and a stare that says ‘get out ugly!!’. 

I’m in the building 45 minutes and I’m €150 lighter which within the current exchange rate is like for like with sterling. I had planned to deficate on the threshold in protest but upon seeing me into my belt Jen insisted we just left without leaving a tip.

This pattern continues over the next couple of days and with the inclusion of car hire, shopping a couple of lunches and one more meal out I find myself €1,000 worse off.  

Don’t get me wrong, I expect to spend large on holiday but over a longer period of time.  This opening salvo has sucked the joy out of me and I need to find the enthusiasm to continue.  A small Pimms and a G &T by the pool for €15 doesn’t help but at least I had Gordon’s and not Hendricks at €11 alone.

We regroup.  Tea and Ham flavoured Ruffles fix everything.

To escape this expense bubbke we take a day trip to Albufeira down the coast to gauge the opposition clans.  

Albufeira has a lovely beach but the town centre reeks of wild west after dusk.  The heavily tattooed are everywhere and I’m getting a whiff of England with every step.  So much so in fact that an Irish theme pub appears.  ‘O’Daleys bar’ stands before me in the form of a sign with full smiling leprechaun holding a Guinness. I’m a plastic paddy but I’m not certain I’ve heard the name O’Daley before so assume it’s a Portuguese  bastardisation to suck in the Guinness lover. 

Noticeably beer is cheap and class is secondary.  A pint is exactly half the price from where I’m staying so I’m certain the night descends into chaos and blood at some point followed by a deep wash down and burying of the bodies before the next busload of toothless appear to drink the place dry.  Everything I touch seems wipable as speed is essential when fleecing the masses and no one is prepared to pay for a ‘caution: cleaning in process’ sign.

Perhaps I’m too harsh. The old town part is cute and cobbled with shops and Russians smoking heavily while carrying crates of Super Bock… standard Margate/Southend/Hastings fair where no one stays for long do you can just treat it like a prison riot.

We return to our ranch for an entertainment evening which means a curry buffet and music from a band called the ‘Daddy Jack Band’.

The food is a standard buffet curry catering for the non spice lover.  In reality you can’t make a super hot curry for the ‘all you can eat’ crowd as you might br left with a bucket of Lamb Karahi with a shelf life of 24 hours so everything is moderate at best.

‘Moderate’ would be a good word to describe the band.  They can clearly all play but it’s the set list that needs smothering.  

When you’re a kid who likes music like I did you dream of walking out to the massive crowd like a Rock God.  It’s a goosebumps enducing image. The adoration, the worship, the power…. sadly I can neither sing not play a note and so all this crud is merely in my head where it will stay until the inevitable mid life crisis where I buy a guitar and just look at it until I die insisting on burial with ‘Joylene’ described in the eulogy as my ‘favourite guitar…

I look at the band.  They are all broken.  The guitarist looks like a bloke who wants to left rip large but is hampered by the need to earn coins and needs to play ‘this shit’ for ‘them fuckers’. The singer is the real cracker here though.  He’s wearing a hat, a white trilby which is too small.  He’s also sporting a wispy Jay Kay from Jamiroquai beard in a fruitless attempt to add personality to his spindly body.  Best of all is the Portoguese/ Americanized accent where we, the people, are ‘guys’ and they, the band are ‘the fellas’. 

Then they start to play.

Do you remember that scene in the ‘Blues Brothers’ where Jake and Elwood track down their band and find them as lounge act ‘Murph and the Magictones’ playing ‘quando quando’ in a soul destroying dump all dressed in pink velour lounge suits?  This is similar. Decent musicians smashed to bits by the circuit, knocking out American rock/pop for a ‘no reaction’ crowd full of average curry.  You can almost see the life falling out of the bass player, he is being drained of essence with every chord he plays.

The opening track is that fuckin Santana song with that warbling ponce from Maroon 5 a band who need immediate destruction.  It’s the kind of music toothless Americans drive across the states listening to under the banner of ‘Road music’. It’s Tesco checkout music, the last minute purchase by demented mothers thinking it will help them get through another day of screaming kids before it’s Pinot Grigio o’clock and the lighting of the tea lights while rocking out to their perception of Rock.  Shit..

My ears are being assaulted by whoops and cries of ‘..C’mon!!…’ and singing in the form of some kind of pig latin / Porto-Yank hybrid that spews up the odd recognisable syllabul…. truly horrendous.  All the while the band play on with as much vigour as Stephen Hawking attempting to juggle cats.

We, the assembled mob, are then asked to lamely clap alone like old people in a care home sun room as they reach a keyboard led extended outro. The ‘singer’ tells us to get to out feet…. he’ll need a gun and a dog to get me up but he knows that after our eyes briefly meet….

I look at the kids.  They are chewing their knuckles in cringe.  As the singer launches into some Ed Sheeran based car crash I rise to my feet and without looking around know that my tribe is with me. 

The band are full Sheeran as we walk through the gate leading to the apartment.  The band all watch us leave like we have escaped from Colditz in broad daylight… we are gone but they do not have ‘zee necessary paperz’ and so will continue with the tunnel at a series of venues in the Algarve area for the remainder of the ‘war’. The bassist almost holds his hand up in recognition of our bravery to do what he cannot, simply walk out without looking back in the name of human decency.  I feel for him but he chose this shit and so deserves a slow death in a Chris Evans Radio 2 playlist. 

Week one ends with me downing Rosé like R Whites…..things are looking up.

Next time I’ll be tackling beaches, Portuguese cuisine, the witch of Loulé and an afternoon where drunk strangers would not leave me alone… all this if I can have a kidney removed to fund the final week..

Another election looms. Another chance to choose a side. Another load of unreal promises and lies to withstand. Another social media bombardment from the do gooders and keyboard warriors who will accuse you of ‘not caring’ or being ‘scum’ for not agreeing with whatever opinion you might have even if you haven’t expressed it.

Another visit to the scout hut it is then. Another night of analysis on all the channels followed by days and weeks of moaning from the losers, whoever they are, with statements like ‘I didn’t sign up for this’ and ‘not in my name’…

Democracy….. outstanding stuff… But not liked by everyone it seems.

This will be my eighth general election as a voter. There have been other votes but this is the big one. Do you really give a toss who is on the card for the local council? Probably not. Do we really care about whether the Scots want their much-mooted Freedom? Not really. Do we really care whether we are in Europe or not? ahhh…. now here’s the issue. We should and we did care and that is what brought us to this massive cluster fuck.

Brexit….

The manifesto promise of a puffy faced, Old Etonian ponce looking to extend his non-working career. If anyone is to blame it was this prick.

For now though we have to deal with the General Election which has coughed up, gagged and spewed out two of the least likeable humans ever to have existed as options to run the country. Two personality vacuums. To be fair we’ve had the personalities in politics over the years who have also been despicable.

Thatcher had a personality, it was arrogant and hateful and born out of some dark recess of hell where only the truly horrific dwell.  Blair had a charismatic personality until he was spotted awkwardly walking in jeans with his hands in his pockets in that kind of Status Quo dance type manner while selling his soul to a dimwit in a flying jacket. Another twat is Johnson who oozes the kind of buffoonery that gets killed ‘in theatre’ by his own troops and Abbott is that kind of thick piss head that shouts ‘ You know what your problem is?’ before falling asleep in a pool of their own piss.   Classic Political Arseholes.

In the Blue Corner we have Mother Theresa, Terri Mandroid or ‘Maggie’ May….. Jesus.

It would be hard to find any love for May. The awkward gait, the super long ‘Close Encounters’ Alien arms, the hunched back and the awkward talking style. She’s a difficult watch. She seems perplexed when confronted with humans of any kind if she is away from the safety of the dispatch box.  She strikes me as the lost Alien like ‘The Man who fell to earth’ or ‘Starman’, Emotionless, fixed, focussed, dispassionate, learning on the hoof…dead inside. It’s not all bad. She has nice shoes and a smashing death stare.

May is disliked because she is dislikeable. It’s really that simple. Her only potentially redeeming feature is toughness or a perceived toughness in her own head. She has this reputation because she is a childless Tory and so in the mind of majority of the general populous she clearly hates kids or anything fluffy and soft and thrives on the hearts of yoof. She is also partial to changing her mind which is seen as complete sacrilege if you are a politician and is punishable by instant resignation and the long walk into the Cursed Earth.  I see it differently.

In life there are only really two ways to do things. The right way and the wrong way. If you do something right then that’s great, you’re a genius. If you do something wrong, learn from it and immediately do the right thing. The hardest part is making a decision in the first place. She seems capable of at least making a decision but of course they aren’t always the right ones. To be fair the ‘right way’ ratio needs to be greater than the ‘wrong way’ or you look like a plum. She can look like a plum.

I don’t get too worried about U-turns or stealing other parties ideas, as to win you need to be ruthless to a ‘no one will get out alive’ level.

The Tories are like the motto of Blackwater the CIA employed security firm / death machine used in Iraq:

“Be polite and courteous but have a plan to kill everyone in the room”

It’s why they generally win, It’s about them and them alone.

On a personal level May is almost everything I dislike in a person in one single distorted body. Cold, distant, a closed book, religious, superior, grubby (looks like she could do with a hosing down and a yard brush scrub), arrogant…she has the lot. Not the kind of woman you’d want to wake up with… in fact she’s exactly the type of woman you would wake with to find staring at you in disgust from a chair in the bedroom holding an engagement ring while praying for forgiveness.

In the Red Corner we have Comrade Corbyn. Mr ‘Mandate’, Mr Adequate payslip, Mr ‘what you fuckin’ looking at’…

Corbyn started off as a joke with rumours of Tories joining the labour party to ensure he won the leadership battle. I’m not sure about this….not the joke part…he remains a joke in my view.

Corbyn is a throwback to a different time, a time when people may have cared more and had less. But he’s not a complete criminal and probably not a bad person. None of this is his fault it is simply his beliefs but a belief that, I feel, won’t work for the country we are in or any country in history regardless of the word ‘Cuba’.

Corbyn strikes me as a man who doesn’t actually want to do any of this and was dared or badgered into it to after the shame of the wrong Millibland and the concrete slab of failure.

In the early stages of his tenure Corbyn seemed incapable of dealing with the press and the attention. He was visibly uncomfortable with it, tetchy and stroppy without realising it’s all a game played by professional layabouts. He also had trouble hiding his disdain for valid questions thrown at him and seem to resort to a ‘you going to get your fuckin head kicked in’ face that he engaged in his years as a party activist. Not really what you expect from a pacifist leader of the peoples’ party.

It would be easy to make cheap gags about Jezza with regard to his initial scruffy appearance and poor quality suits but that would be pathetic and would deflect from the real issue which is belief in ‘Mandate’.

Corbyn took the view that he had the mandate of the party without actually doing the maths. True, he was voted in by the membership of which there are about 700,000 but not all of them wanted him.

Let’s say he had 400,000 of them backing him….Great… it still left about 9,000,000 labour voters from the last election who may or may not vote for him. I’d imagine a large proportion of those labour voters still wouldn’t vote for him because his socialist utopian vision which a large chunk of them don’t care for.

Corbyn’s appointment in the name of his mandate has effectively split the party and resulted in the Tories romping ahead. He likes to ignore the non-member voters like they don’t exist which is a bit like a football club only wanting to associate itself with the punters in the ground while ignore the fans who follow from afar….y’know….’The Masses’. It’s unacceptable. As equally unacceptable to most of us that Trump has the support of certain areas of the country but not the popular vote. He answers to that crowd and that crowd alone under his ‘mandate’. Trump is rightly slaughtered for that by the same people banging on about Corbyn’s right to mention it at every opportunity.

How can I be sure that the country doesn’t want Corbyn? I can’t.

I can only speak from my own perspective which is that if it came to the crunch I think that most of the liberal left who spout on and on within the security of social media would be affected more than they think they would. It’s a nice idea but we all have too much to start with to change. Your average Facebook warrior forgets this and likes to merely talk about it while making sure they are ‘all right Jack’. Each to their own but personally I like to live by a mantra I stick to all the time and not just when it suits me or makes me look radical or compassionate to people that I’m actually quite distant from.

I’ve worked for 32 years with a wage taxed at source. I have no cash in hand, no money under the bed or the means or access to a tax avoidance expert. I simply work and pay my taxes with no tricks. On the upside I’m lucky enough to live in the middle banding of earners (not too much, not too little) who remain relatively unaffected by a change of government to any real level. This isn’t my fault as I’d love to be in the small yet wealthy top bracket where I would be equally unaffected.

The biggest issue and reason why Corbyn’s stance won’t work is greed.

This country is greedy in general from King to Pauper. The King wants a bigger house and nicer car and the Pauper wants a bigger TV and a better dog. It is instilled in our society from top to bottom and that is where we are. A socialist agenda only works for the few, much like the tory right agenda. There is no middle ground but the majority are in that middle ground… the ‘Meh’ generation…

People will ask me ‘don’t you want to help those less fortunate?’. Well the answer is Yes… and No.

You’d be pretty heartless if you didn’t occasionally or even regularly put your hand in your pocket to assist someone or some organisation but I’m not keen on being told to do it as it should be a personal choice.

I suppose, selflessly (which I freely admit) I see it that no fucker ever helped me.  No government, no inheritance, no parental advice or encouragement, no nothing. I’ve acquired all the work I’ve ever had and remained employed since. I’m a great believer in making your own luck, relying on no one and not expecting anyone to assist me. I’m Lucky (I get that) but I see my role on the planet as looking after me and mine and then maybe someone else if I can.

The new Labour manifesto is a dreamer’s wish list. It is costed but it is fuelled by dreams of untapped money and nothing happening globally that would affect growth projections and the plan as it stands now.

It’s generally easy in opposition as you can promise what you like due to the fact that most Governments in power are hated anyway and whatever they do is open to abuse as it’s real and in action rather than on a piece of paper. Corbyn is promising free child care, free school meals, free university education, more money for the NHS, more money for virtually everything based on a source of money that he feels he can summon up with ease.   Unpaid tax and more Tax from the ‘rich’. Triffic. I’m not a believer as I have experience in this field.

The idea that you can claw back money from tax avoidance and evasion is fairly stupid. This is a well-used source of untapped money on a lot of manifestos and the perception is that it is just sitting there waiting for someone to spot it. This money is used as the great bail out within policy party manifestos and is endlessly trotted out. Given that no one has ever managed to tap into this divine ambrosia can you believe anyone that says they have a plan for it? ‘No’ is the answer. If it could be easily obtained it would have been already. The fact is it is a notional figure used to pad out manifestos from both sides. HMRC are tasked with collecting this money and they are partial to doing deals as they are revenue collectors and not law enforcers and so cleaning slates with as little hassle as possible is their job. Something is better than noting and years in a court room to get nothing, it’s the line of least resistance approach.

This figure is used to placate an aggrieved electorate who would do exactly what the tax evader/avoider does if they had the means and inclination……Greed once more with a hint of jealously chucked in….all fairly human as we all want to pay less to get more.

Labour know this and so trot out the ‘Free!! Free!!’ shtick knowing in reality that they will not have to deliver that if in government as you always have the fall back position of ‘the country is more skint than we realised’,  famously used when Labour left a note for an incoming Coalition Chancellor. The next thing you know the new Chancellor says ‘We never knew it was this bad’ and revises everything downwards with ‘unforeseen’ cuts. Tis the way it is and will always be….

The Tory manifesto is not costed. Why cost it anyway? The Tories will do pretty much what they like and no manifesto they have ever written has ever been realised anyway. As usual the Tories are looking to crucify anyone who isn’t them and some people who are them…. Tough on people, tough on the causes of people.

They are like a death cult without the mass causalities, perhaps a ‘slow-death cult’, but at least there is an element of realism unlike Labour and the other current opposition parties. There has to be an element of realism as they are in the now ‘running’ the country. The fantasy isn’t acceptable as we can see it failing in real time. The opposition manifesto is the lifeboat on the horizon but without you seeing the pirates manning the ship and looking to kill you….any lifeboat will do when you are drowning, you’ll take the risk of buggery and cheap, low grade rum…

The Tory plan is about pain and misery for most of us rather than the promise of free university education or 10,000 shiny new police spilling out on the streets when you haven’t factored in the cost of training, equipment, uniform, overtime or the fact that when they resign due to stress or the realisation that you don’t want to be hated on a daily basis they have to be replaced at further cost.

The sad reality is wherever we look and whatever path we take pain will hit us under the Tories…. There will be no sunshine. Winter is coming and it’s either wearing ludicrous shoes and a bauble necklace or a shabby beard and elbow patches.

Of course, all this was as avoidable as the tax on a trader’s wages if smooth skinned Dave hadn’t called for a vote on leaving the EU. His game of bluff backfired leaving him with no Knighthood, no party and no credibility. This was the cocky actions of a puffy faced snob who has never worked or experienced real people and so didn’t realise that you cannot rely on or trust real people.

Brexit will inevitably be a disaster regardless of what the leavers think or tell you. In 10 years’ time when we are suffering beyond what we think now you’ll barely find anyone admitting to voting leave either through death or embarrassment. It was a generational decision with a hint of island mentality stoked by a millionaire with a French name, a German wife and an income from a job he tried to dismantle in a part of the planet he hated.

When the negotiations start (noting has started yet….these are the final halcyon days) we’ll win in some minor places but lose large in others as you can’t give up your membership of the metaphorical golf club and still play during the peak times as the rest of the membership will demand the same. Europe will look to crucify us while still keeping us interested enough as they need us almost as much as we need them. To say otherwise would be ludicrous and similar to assuming that it hasn’t affected us yet so it will be easy.

I wanted to stay in Europe but I’m happy to go with the democracy because that’s the rules, whatever will be will be, the people have spoken etc, etc. The biggest problem is that the Tory mindset (it’s peculiar to the so-called ‘elite’) is that Britannia still rules the waves and all we have to do is point a lot and raise our voices to Johnny Foreigner to get what we think we deserve. Things have moved on and now so do we. You can’t crave democracy and when you lose get the arsehole and demand a new vote….. The scots like to do that and they are derided.

Even though I’m a ‘remainer’ I do see the lunacy of some aspects of the EU particularly the option for one nation to not agree resulting in nothing happening and years of negotiation to collapse. Knowing that this can happen should send a chill up any Tory negotiator with the Empire mentality. It’s sort of like a more important Eurovision where you can near enough predict who gets what from the political scenario at the time. Overall I feel that we would be better off within it than out of it but I’m prepared to get on with it and the consequences as my responsibility is within my own house and there alone.

My greatest annoyance during any political upheaval or election is social media. All the warriors appear. Fear not, I’m well aware of the irony of this be available in another social media format but I’m not actually trying to ram a concept that I believe in down your mush.

As soon as an election starts these keyboard warriors appear. In the old days nobody really knew who you voted for as it was a private personal choice. It’s why the polling booth has screens. It’s different now. You are expected through polls and peer pressure to declare your hand in advance. Funny really that this didn’t work last time with the Tories storming through to shock everyone to win outright. This happens because the Tories fall in line like good soldiers in moments like this. Labour don’t. They fracture and split but believe that you should know on a daily basis what they are going to do, why you should do it also and if you don’t do that you are utter filth.

Tories don’t really do it whether they are embarrassed to do it or just don’t see it as necessary, I’m not sure. Labour supporters (in my recent experience) have become vicious and nasty. You are either with them completely and on the Corbyn bus or you can fuck off. I’ve been told to shut up, leave people’s timelines, offered out and, worst of all, been called a Tory for disagreeing on a what I see as a left-wing agenda. I’m not a Tory I’m just not a Corbyn fan because I feel he makes ludicrous claims that he can’t live up to and doesn’t represent me.

Corbyn’s ‘mandate army’ seem to think they are the only ones with the right to an opinion and if you don’t agree you are worse that a toffee nosed tory who wants to see dead babies floating in the Mediterranean.

Corbyn has failed to unite his own party so it will be some feat if he manages to unite a country, or enough of a country for his party to win. Of course the ‘Mandaters’ will cry ‘largest party membership in the world’ which is probably true but as I said earlier even they ain’t all for one and one for all.

There’s nothing wrong with passion in politics, it should be actively encouraged but you have to accept other opinions exist without tearing into people you supposedly like 99% of the time in real life.

Twitter is the worst format. It is awash with Champagne socialists, Far right, Fois Gras fed Tories and UKIP fuckwits who can easily spout shite in 140 characters and then not even have the good grace to allow a response.

I saw a quote from an interview with a well-known English actor the other day banging on about inequality in this country. The interviewer reminded him that he owned seven properties and he replied that property ownership was his only ‘extravagance’….Lovely.

There’s a lot of celeb socialists always talking from positions of opulence about how we, the people, need to act. They fuck off occasionally to be waited on in far off lands for large sums of money which they hide in off shore accounts or live in other jurisdictions where tax may be less or optional. It’s a bit like that Occupy London toff who will look back on his revolutionary days being ‘kettled’ by the filth with ‘great fondness’ from one of Daddy’s many Mayfair penthouses over a glass of fine wine. They are anecdote creators rather than great humanitarians.

On a lower more local level you get a lot of so-called ‘working class’ people who work cash in hand and only declare what is basically required while telling everyone that the richer need to pay more. These people don’t really fit the socialist agenda that Jezza wants and, in reality, are no better than the millionaire who can find the means to pay for the assistance to ‘lose’ money. Both these groups hurt the economy to different levels but neither admit it. We all want to pay less for more that is human nature but rules is rules in my book so pay your way because you have to not just when you have to.

I don’t know what the answer for this country is but it isn’t anything I’ve seen lately. The TV interviews with the Lounge Lizard Paxman only proved that they were both a couple of wasters who can’t express an idea with much clarity, honesty or articulation but these are the choices we have. I try to get through it by imagining Comrade Corbyn looking down at Maggie May going ‘at it’ like a dog with a hot chip. This image makes them seem less ludicrous to me than they actually are in real life and at the very least points me in the direction of the Polling Station.

The most important thing in this whole joke scenario is that you vote and mean it. If you don’t vote it means you should pretty much shut the fuck up and bite down on the shit sandwich that will ultimately be delivered as I see no great outcome whoever the winner.

Don’t waste the opportunity to have your say, but be nice with it and accept that others don’t agree or in some cases even care. Vote and we can have friendly adult debate until the next time these fuckers decide they need to be loved or are too scared to do their jobs properly.

The year draws to a close. Thank Fuck. 2016. A total car crash of a year on many levels. Socially, globally, politically, artistically and personally. Utter wank.

The year of death and destruction but mainly death. Lemmy, Wogan, Victoria Wood, Fisher, Prince, Michael, Ali and of course the big one…Stewpot Stewart.

We’ve all felt death. I’ve known mothers, fathers, exes and brothers of my friends die this year which is much more devastating than any celebrity who led a privileged life of excess. That’s not to say it doesn’t affect you as their passing is a marker of your own mortality. They are still people you feel you know from music, film, TV and comedy who spark memories good or bad and that’s why it affects you more than news about a bus crash or a gangland killing.

The big celebrity death of the year for me was Bowie. It still makes me cry.

No one could say they were surprised when Lemmy or Ali died for example. Ali had been ill for decades and it was really only sheer will and Rock power that were keeping Kilminster on his feet but we didn’t really know Bowie was even ill.

I have a vivid memory of day Bowie died. We have a TV on in the office as we need to know if something catastrophic happens and sadly the evil empire of Sky News knows before anyone else. I walked passed the TV and the headline simple said ‘BOWIE DEAD’. I was rooted to the spot as were the majority of the room. This is unusual where I work as most of my associates are weapons grade piss takers but this death seemed to have a profound effect on everyone present. In an unprecedented turn of events, no one took the piss. That was the thing about Bowie. Even in that room, a room of professional, brutal rippers of urine little, if nothing, was said because at some point everyone loved Bowie or a track by him. He must be the greatest solo artist this country even produced.

It upsets me to hear a Bowie track now but it’s essential that he stays at the forefront of my playlists as there were just too many classic tracks or hidden gems to ignore…too many memories linked to Bowie tracks.

A personal favourite of mine was always ‘Oh you pretty things’. It’s such a simple track but delivers on all levels. Classic Bowie. Look at this section of lyrics from it….2016 in a nutshell:

“Look out my window and what do I see

A crack in the sky and a hand reaching down to me

All the nightmares came today

And it looks as though they’re here to stay”

Another tremendous hidden gem can be found on the derided ‘David live’ album from the Diamond Dogs tour. ‘Hear today, gone tomorrow’ a cover version…. Outstanding… find it…. love it…raise your glass to Bowie and all the heroes that went this year.

And our nightmares did appear in 2016 as Dave so diligently wrote. Amongst all the death was the global breakdown in values and society. Initially I assumed through my own arrogance and complacency that this was led by stupidity and bigotry on behalf of the masses but now I’m leaning towards the view that those in charge just didn’t take the people seriously enough….and the people spoke letting the elite know the score… Democracy in action. Suck it up. It wasn’t what I wanted but I’m not the country, I am one man.

….Hmmm…. too deep I think…. Ok…. Fuck it, let’s dig deeper… Let’s face it, It was all about lies in reality. Lies that the people (democracy in action) wanted to believe.

This is nothing new. It’s basically politics and the pursuit of power over the last 1000 years. The general consensus, in my adult , is that all politicians lie. Let’s face it, can you name an effective, truthful politician that you’ve ever believed? Some will say Comrade Corbyn.  A man of moral with an adulterous streak, simmering rage when confronted with a difficult question and no realistic chance of running the country due to age and policy, earning top bunce running a party that he wants to be something else, something ancient, something that no one with really wants or deep down believes will work. Even up against a Tory party of complete ineptitude he’s failed to make a dent.

Of course, there are people that crave socialism without really understanding it. They also crave big houses, coffee mornings, artisan bread, meals out, bubbles at Christmas and fantastic all-inclusive holidays. A bit like that ‘Occupy London’ ponce whose Daddy owns half of Mayfair, one day he’ll be sitting in a fabulous penthouse apartment overlooking Green Park talking about his rebellious moment.

No one wants less for themselves and their kids. We all want more and so champagne socialism thrives in the lovely places where the upper middle class claim they want to house those seeking a better life but won’t leave the gas man alone when he checks the meter or wouldn’t dream of allowing a builder to use their toilet. The perfect storm of Soundbites and bollocks for a better reputation convincing themselves that they are good humans. Tremendous. The new world order… If you look really closely through social media you can work out who means it and who just says it to feel better about themselves.

Jezza aside the two senior arseholes in this game were, of course, Trump and Farage.

Trump, the son of immigrant parents, married to a number of immigrant wives is part of the elite he claims to hate. He’s a billionaire businessman who appeals to the nationalistic working class man because he’s not a politician and talks tough like they do.

Farage, the spawn of immigrant ancestry, married to an immigrant wife is part of the elite he claims to hate. He is a millionaire former stockbroker who appeals to the nationalistic working class man because he’s not a politician and he smokes fags and drinks English bitter like they do.

Hang on…. This is awkward. They could be the same man on different continents.

Maybe it’s what the people want. Maybe the ignored silent majority are just sick of being told they should care about everyone else when they feel they have nothing themselves. Tricky one but I get it…..just about.

Fear will help you believe in anything you see as better than what you have, so when you get two uber confident ponces spouting endlessly about a ‘fact free’ Utopia the disadvantaged will grab it and run with it. This is what happened in my view.

Don’t be blaming those that voted, they are the ones that felt passionately about it enough to leave the house and tick a box, they should be applauded for engaging in the democracy. Don’t be blaming the non-voters because you can’t be sure that they were going to vote the way you wanted. It’s a common misconception that the ‘can’t be arsed’ would have won it for you.

If you need to blame anyone blame the liars who campaigned on firm bed of cobblers and career. Blame the fake news on social media and the gullible who helped spread it. Blame the sharers of crap. Blame the over sharers who bombard the web with things they like in the belief that you need to know even though it might not necessarily be to your taste or be even accurate. Blame the pollsters for creating a complacency amongst half the populous. But mostly blame the liars who now, having won, have absolutely no idea what to do but expect someone else to sort it for them.

We spent the Summer and Autumn talking about Trump and Farage as comedians with no hope. We believed them to be liars then so why do we believe them now? Mexican walls, closed borders, free trade, deportation, self-sufficient countries…. I don’t believe a word of it. They are still the same fraudsters they were when they hoodwinked millions in my view, nothing has changed so I expect a hard time which will be derided by those not dealing with it for their own gain under.

But all that is over. It’s pointless whinging on about it when the voting majority in two countries chose through a twisted democratic process. And no, I haven’t forgotten the popular vote for Mrs Clinton but that counts for little in that system. It’s like beating Hull 6-0 when you need to beat Man United, Chelsea and Liverpool to be champions, It’s the wrong battle for the overall war…

What’s done is done and if you don’t accept that then you are fighting against the democracy we all crave. The view that ‘I didn’t want it so won’t accept it’ is unacceptable so we just need to chew the shit sandwich till it’s eaten before we order a Bacon and Brie ciabatta we like. Tin hats of everyone…. The liars are still out there and are, as usual, unaffected by the state of the nation. We are the grunts waiting for the whistle before the charge into no-man’s land and potential oblivion with a hint of victory.

Just my opinion of course…..other opinions are available.

What else did the year bring? The usual Arsenal collapse, the demise of popular music, the same old guff.

On the upside, I fell back in love with my job and stopped looking for a new one. When you work with the right people you no longer need change and that’s what happened. Also, and luckily due to the aforementioned breakdown in society I’ve been fed an endless supply of work opportunities and so It’s been a busy year and will, no doubt, get busier next year. This eye opening also made me rethink my initial ‘can’t believe Brexit happened’ take on things. When you see the bottom of the barrel out there, societies oxygen thieves you rethink stuff. Anyway, it’s important to love your job as you have to do it for a fucking long time.

Socially I had a good year as always. Friends are everything and I managed to see all the people that mattered. I did the usual December Christmas drinking marathon and hopefully came through it unscathed although the final effort was really a bridge too far and so less if required next time.

I only managed one gig this year which was the return of the mighty UFO to a small but perfectly formed venue in the shires. They were better than ever and seeing them reminded me of the power of live music in small venues. Sadly, live music has now been taken over by corporate event fans at ludicrous cost so next year I’m aiming to go a lot more gigs of smaller bands…. Maybe I’ll drag out the Horse for an airing…..less booze more noise…..

My year was dominated by the death of my Mother and the metaphorical death of my Father and younger brother.

Last Christmas my Mum sat at my Christmas table, four months later she was gone forever. The grief was huge but a different type of grief continues in the shape of paranoia, greed and hate from the double act left. Any good memories I had are gone as I’ve heard and learned too much over the 8 months since she left us shattering the myth of ‘family’.

It’s been a tragic, desperate scenario with no real conclusion. The antagonists remain in my face as they bizarrely delivered Christmas cards from ‘Mum and Dad’ or ‘Grandma and Grandad’. There must be some form of etiquette for this surely? Clearly the prick writing these cards has forgotten that he brutally told me in the week after the funeral that my Mum was ‘fuckin’ dead’ and I should remember that. Well, I do remember it and so the dynamic duo will drown in their own bile before I return. I have my own family and they will not be sucked into my crud.

I have only one possession from my Mum and I will cherish it forever. It sits by my bed and will remain there to remind me of the person who was fun and loving before the ravages of illness and the psychological kicking of being married to the Monster.

It’s the crucifix that she had a child that hung on the wall in the family home and she had at the hospice with her for the final journey. I look at it every night and it reminds me of her and the good within her. It has no religious significance to me and is just a symbol of her, a reminder of the person I loved.

Enough of the year of woe. It will end shortly and we can all reset our shit.

There will be no dry January as I love the taste of wine too much. There will be no more Guinness as I’ve had enough of it. There will be no job hunting as I’ve got too much to do. And, as all ggod things come to an end, there will be no more blogs like this as I’ve run out of steam and enthusiasm for it. Time to do something else in the new year and so unless I find a spark and return to the blogosphere I will return to the swift, ‘on the hoof’ ranting within Bookface.

Remember: Friends and Family are all, Laugh and love life, help where you can if you can, be nice to each other and remember the good in all the Departed…

Thanks for all the support and kind words over the last couple of years…

These were my words….. Go. Mental.

You’ll be pleased to hear that the Wi-Fi has been reconnected and no farmers have been seriously assaulted.  Modern life makes me this way, violent and in need of devices.  I’ve been here for nearly 2 weeks and my phone has only rung three times and on every occasion it has been necessary for me to insult some jub informing me of an accident I’ve been involved in or telling me that I could be liable for a refund of PPI that I have never signed up to…

Hmmm…. Maybe people don’t care that I’m here?  Fuck people.

Ok… There are only a few things that have eight legs that I’m wary of when I’m in their death arc.

• Two hungry tigers
• A protective elephant and calf
• Four pissheads in a kebab shop where the chilli sauce has run dry and:

‘Tegenaria gigantea’

• The Giant House spider or ‘savage flappy legged hell freak’.

I am an Arachnophobe and always have been and there are many reasons for this.

There’s my overpowering human desire to smash, burn, shoot and burn again spiders.  There’s the time I woke up face to face with one on the pillow aged 8 and the time a very large one was directly responsible for ‘coitus interruptus’ in my late teens resulting in a rapid disengagement from participating party and a frantic hunt for the beast in the confines of a box room in my parents’ house where all previous attempts to keep ‘things’ quiet went out the window in the melee that followed.

On that occasion the beast was found crawling up the forearm of a naked girlfriend who was shouting ‘WHERE?? WHERE??’ as I pointed in silent terror.  That spider (let’s call him Brian) destroyed that late teen moment and so they all now must die.

It’s been a difficult forty odd years but I reckon I’ve dispatched thousands of the fuckers by means of rapidly brought down boot, dropped dinner plate, chucked remote control, pointed stick poke, hairspray (slows them down), boiling water from above (unbelievably effective) and slapped palm…. I am the Torquemada of the spider inquisition.

And then I rented this lovely barn type conversion for two weeks in Norfolk.  Good God.  It’s like all the spiders in the world are on holiday here.  In the 12 days in this house I have dispatched at least 22 of the fuckers, tiny yellow ones, small black ones, medium brown ones and a ludicrous number of massive ones with dripping fangs and cocky ‘never say die’ attitude.

When dealing with ‘Tegenaria Gigantea’ it is essential to deploy US Special forces and CIA employed, private death machine ‘Blackwater’ tactic: The ‘OODA Loop’.

For the uninitiated OODA stands for ‘Observe, Orientate, Decide, Act’.  You need to do these four things in 1.5 seconds in order to be victorious when faced with an adversary of this magnitude and hate who can kill you in 2 seconds.  Remember the beast has the advantage as you have a quarter of the legs that it does.

• Observe:  You spot the Spider
• Orientate: Check that no spider lovers are around
• Decide: The spider must be smashed (no brainer)
• Act: Smash the spider (then smash repeatedly until dust)

Easy.  I’ve been doing this for years (not wholly true as I only discovered OODA in a book about ‘Blackwater’ a week ago) and it only fails if you have spotted the spider and allowed more than 1.5 seconds to elapse.

When in that position, it is advisable (so long as the beast is contained in a sink or cage) to pace up and down swearing a lot while sweating profusely.  The delay in dishing out death from above causes panic of apocalyptic proportions where no implement seems big enough.  You go from handful of kitchen roll for the death grip, through such weapons as shoe and coffee table before sofa and TV may be used to smash to dust.  If the beast is not contained in some kind of death row type scenario, then It’s best to either ring Foxton’s for a valuation on the property or burn the house down.

Now I know there will be some freaks out there, probably in New Zealand, telling me that Spiders are great and that they should be captured and released to run free in the countryside but I’m deploying an Agincourt approach here.  No fucking prisoners, no messages back to the King Spider as a warning.  Henry V didn’t smash the French through nicety. He was victorious because he took out an entire generation with absolutely no chivalry whatsoever.  Genius.  I am he and this is for England.  Fuck Spiders.  I will not be Baggins wrapped up like a juicy human Burrito frothing at the mouth dominated by an arachnid… I’ve made my decision, accept it…there are billions of spiders and only one me.

So…. Off to Norwich we go.

Norwich scene of some stuff at some point…..and Alan Partridge….’The blood runs deep’.

Norwich is a great city.  I was particularly impressed by the Cathedral and being of catholic stock I’ve seen a lot of buildings erected for God.  It was lovely place where you could walk around at will with surprisingly little in the way of ‘out of bounds’… The only problem with it was in the last 10 feet where a kids entertainer called ‘Johnny Jaffa cake’ was doing his thing to a mob of 20 five year old brats screaming the place down. An odd choice for the inside of a religious building, bit like sticking a Coke machine up by the altar. We move on and out, at pace, into the city itself.

It’s bustling with the tattooed and thumbless but it’s friendly and none of us are kidnapped to spend our remaining time in a barn with over large boys and three legged chickens.  There are buskers on most street corners and not the type that are simple clanking some spoons together but ones with real talent including two paddies knocking out that weepy Snow Patrol track and mid-range efforts from the Simon and Garfunkel cannon.  It’s also nice not to see the fake ‘Big Issue’ seller with the laminated copy which is the scourge of the country.

Jen and B stop at a market stall selling novelty rucksacks.  The boy and I watch from a far.  They have clearly spotted some kind of bargain and are getting involved.  After about 10 minute they have returned with goods and smiles, the joy of actual ‘live’ purchases rather than interweb shopping.  As she gets back I ask Jen how she good buy anything off a bloke like that.

‘Like what?’ she says.

‘Like bulldog tattoo to right calf, union flag tattoo to left forearm, Crusader brandishing broadsword tattoo to right bicep, St George cross tattoo to side of head, ‘NF’ tattoo to back of neck’ says I.

‘….Oh….I didn’t notice’ she replies…

And there you have it.  Women are none suspicious whereas men scan a crowd like the Terminator looking for Sarah Connor through a red lens.

‘….Hardnut……soft lad…..dangerous dog…..drunk…..nice rack…..ginger…..old lady, bad small…. Skinny suit…. city boy…. Ponytailed office fooder…..top heavy…. Potential rival for leadership come the Zombie Apocalypse…. needs a shoeing…. big arse….no arse…..nice rack…. sad and lonely…dog owner….arsehole…. loves a spider…. nice smell….cheap pub with escape route…’

…this kind of thing.  We are hunters and so assess as we go along, It’s a disease, a sickness. Women are much nicer; they see the good rather than the horror.  Anyway now that we’ve funded the lifestyle of a fascist we look for somewhere to eat for lunch.

Norwich has some lovely eateries so why and I sitting in a Greggs?  Not only sitting in a Greggs but sitting in the front window of a Greggs exposed to passing trade, some of whom look intelligent and sympathetic to my plight.  I’m being mocked by the general Norwichian.

Jen chooses Greggs as a quick and easy lunch.  I have no items on me to disguise myself, not even a cap and so am stuck in the window like an advert for the meat with pastry eater.  You don’t get a body like mine without liking pastry but no one eats in a Greggs under 70 as most of the offerings appear partially digested for ease.

Greggs is a shop that you enter at speed, order out of the corner of your mouth while looking around shouting ‘QUICKER!! QUICKER!! QUICKER!!’ like Tom Hardy being rubbed with butter in ‘Bronson’.  You then chuck money at the counter when they fail to get you in and out within 15 seconds.  It’s not a ‘table for four’ place but I’m at a table for four gnawing on a meat parcel and a cup of ‘Coffee’ minus any coffee flavour.

Next to us are two elastic waistband old ladies.  They are deep in discussion. Old bat #1 is dolled up to the eyeballs.  She is bottle blond and made up like Bette Davis in ‘What ever happened to Baby Jane?’. The eye make-up is particularly memorable as it looks like two spiders have set up home such is the black thickness. She’s also cleavage heavy in a flash back to years gone by but now she’s struggling to fill the cup with a couple of snoopy noses…. She ain’t having it though, she’s pushing forward, thrusting upwards at the hope of attracting some kind of plum looking for a GGILF liaison.

Old bat #2 looks like a bloke I used to work with who is long dead.  Dead, dead eyes like a shark mid death bite, and the teeth/nose combo is worthy of a fancy dress shop £2 bargain bucket however she is more conventionally dressed for her age and I appreciate that for the sake of my sight.

I hone in on their conversation and to my horror they are talking about sex and going ’over the side’.  The once buxom Baby Jane is doing the goading in a Sybil Fawlty ‘…Ooo I know…’ kind of way and comedy nose is doing the graphic descriptive stuff.  She’s ‘had enough’ or her old man and is seeking fresh excitement with a younger model to liven herself up to make her feel ‘like a women again’….I’m dubious of the ‘again’ bit.

I’m half gagging on my ‘meet’ packet at the thought of this dry old crone going ‘at it’ but I’m trapped as I can see no opportunity to flee without being spotted by someone vaguely normal.  I bite down and force myself through the double whammy of horrendous imagery and liquid meat and potato in soggy pastry.

I spot a chance of escape behind a rather overly nourished individual on crutches with his pants exposed who has just purchase 4 jumbo sausage rolls and a Fanta…. We are out and in the clean, fresh air.

Piss taking aside, Norwich is a lovely city with lots to see and do.  It was vibrant and busy but also oozed history and was worth visiting.

And then there’s Cromer.

Cromer is every  British beachside resort you’ve ever been to with added freakery.  Bikers, Jugglers, a pier with absolutely nothing worthy on it at all and a boozer called ‘The Albion’.  I wasn’t risking the pub as I risked the pier.

The pier has all a pier should have including the standard crap bar with warm flat lager.  Dogs, electric mobility scooters and people crabbing off the edges of the pier are everywhere.  Crabbing is a fruitless pursuit given that crabmeat flows like sick in a gutter in Cromer as it costs nothing, is killed and liberated from gritty mud laden shells by someone else and in some cases stuffed into a stale baguette.

The crab people love the hunt though and so dangle crab enticing treats off strings into the sea in the hope of walking back to land with a poor old crab in a clear bucket emblazoned with a cartoon crustacean…. Christ knows what the crab thinks…

We leave the seafront for the back streets of Cromer.   It’s all there.  A tattooist called ‘Iconic ink’, an Antique Shop with a Bren Gun with bullet belt in the window for £2,000.00, a shop selling ceramic faced dolls that come to life at night and strangle things and a series of chip shops claiming ‘Best in Cromer’.  Can you be best anything in Cromer?  Best looking seagull?  Best drain cover? Best road out of Cromer?

I’m not big on seaside towns as you can probably tell.  Too many years visiting Hastings to see the in-laws or family holidays as a kid where we walked around aimlessly while my Old Man got mangled in the local British Legion before weaving his car home with us in tow.  Of course it’s different abroad where the heat is the major factor.  Bars replace transient punter boozers with pool tables providing weapons for the patrons and you have restaurants serving stuff killed at the table rather than fast food eateries serving up stuff you can usually eat on a stick.  Our promenades are filled with large pale blobs (of which I am one) limping along with screaming kids rather than the beautiful tanned, postage stamped budgie smuggler wearers dripping in Paco Rabanne.  Beach life just ain’t my bag baby…. I’m a big city type of twat.

The best day out we had was a trip to see the seals off Blakney Point.  I have nothing but good words about this trip from the quality of the boat to quality of the punters on board.  The two guys running the trip were funny and informative and it was great to some proper wildlife in a proper environment.  Excellent stuff.

See?  If I’m not ripping things to shreds it all gets nice and even more pointless.  And so with that in mind we come to Wroxham, the staging post for our trip down the Norfolk Broads.

Wroxham appears to a town dropped in from 1974 by an alien civilization.  Wroxham is effectively a bridge over part of the Norfolk broads surrounded by a few shops, cafes and a Pub.  I’ll deal with the pub in a minute but thankfully unlike most of the other retail units it was devoid of a flat roof.

Wroxham appears to be owned by a bloke called Roy.  There’s ‘Roys Toys’, ‘Roys DIY’, ‘Roys Food Emporium’, ‘Roys garden centre’ and, of course, simply ‘Roys’ which seems to be a department store specialising in clothes pre dipped in piss and lavender for old people.  The curry house at least tried by calling itself ‘The Royal’. Roy is the Wroxham equivalent of Rick Stein in Padstow.   He got his claws in early and he took the place over like a parasitic body snatcher.

As ever, with kids, we arrive and look for food.  It’s slim pickings and so we decide on a pub called The Kings Arms due to the sign reading ‘Food served all day / massive garden’.  This turned out to be partially correct as the garden was fucking massive.

We take a seat in the garden and peruse the fayre within the extensive menu.  There’s some nice stuff on it and we all agree it’s a good choice.  I then head to the bar for some lovely beverages to go with whatever we choose to eat…. Drinks first, then eat..I’m a traditionalist…

It’s a big pub with a two big bars.  In an act of outstanding English poncitude the assembled punters have formed four separate queues at each individual bar.  Each queue contains 10-12 people all carrying menus and hard earned cash.  They look hunger and their thirst needs slaking on a hot day like this.  I join a queue and wait my turn. I am merely 10 people from that ice cold Heineken pump and I start to drool slightly…. No one notices…

It then strikes me that this pub appears to have two bar staff for the whole building.  These two are working the two equally sized bars with four equally filled queues of idiots like me.  These ain’t no Irish bar staff, these are Wroxham bar staff.  Gone is the capability of serving two drinks at the same time left alone two punters at the same time, gone is the ability to strike up a conversation above a mumble and gone is the ability to pass on useful information to a crowd of people queuing like cows heading to a slaughter house.

I remain calm until I realise that the punters are even more useless than these two plums behind the ramp.  Old people are the order of the day in Wroxham. Roy has slaughtered all those under 60 in a reverse ‘Children of the Corn’ nightmarish scenario, which means that every aged punter that reaches the mumbling barkeep goes through the drinks and menu with finite intensity looking for a bargain some angle of BOGOF cheapness.

I remain calm and wait my turn.  I’m only three from the front now and luckily due to the deafness of the spritzer drinker I hear a that if you want food the wait is 1 hour 25 minutes.  I’ve been in this queue for 20 minutes looking for 4 drinks that will take 90 seconds to pour and I’ve just heard on the breeze that food is far from being served ‘all day’ but is only served at specific non busy moments of the day.

I lean over the queue and tackle the barbod verbally much to the annoyance of a frustrated Mrs Violet Gobble from Penge who is asking about the tenderness of carrots within the medley of vegetables served with the Chicken, Leek and bacon puff pastry pie.

‘’scuse me mate….did you say that it’s a 85 minute wait for food?’ says I…

There’s a pause while he tries to calculate 1 hour 25 minutes into single minutes.

‘Yeah’ he says with mouth breathing pie hole open… ‘unless you want the Carvery’

‘The Carvery’ I reply.  ‘Do I look like I want a plate of stewed veg, bullet hard roasties and constantly reheated meat on a Thursday afternoon?….. No I don’t do I?’

He remains stationary, mouth agape.

‘Do you think this information may be relevant to us, the assembled throng? (gesturing to crowd of Jubs behind me) or were you hoping that we would all purchase drinks and so would be trapped and fall for the old 85 minute trick?’ I continue…

….nothing from faux hipster barjub…. He remains stationary with mouth open…

I turn and leave returning to the garden to deliver the bad news my tribe.  I look back and see the queue I’m in all move up one place as they are hardened Carvarians in dire need of the three meat platter with small jug of gravy.

We are in Wroxham for the final trip.  A boat journey up the broads on an Edwardian barge.  I’m seeking tranquillity and I get it in spades.

The boat is a fantastic piece of craftsmanship in immaculate condition.  The boatman must have been some kind of Thesp in his time and he regales us with stories of this lovely stretch of water and the peacefulness it oozes.

I’m reclining in the moment when I notice the boatman slightly quicken his commentary and fumble under is seat for what appears to be a table tennis bat.  Ahead on the river I notice a launch heading our way creating quite a large wake.  The occupants are a couple of middle aged herberts clearly on a trip from South East London who have decided that the 3mph limit doesn’t give off the ‘Miami Vice’ opening credits vibe they are looking for.  These boatmen are bouncing along with the speed (6mph) roaring with laughter.

We are almost adjacent now and I notice my Jerome K Jerome commentary has temporarily ceased from the Thesp.  The liberated table tennis bat is actually a sign with ‘3 MPH’ in large black letters and the Thesp is frantically waving it to get the attention of the London Scum who are upping the ante on ‘Mirabelle’ to an out of control 7 MPH.

As we come directly alongside the Thesp explodes with a violent outburst of ‘SLOW DOWN!!!! SLOW DOWN!! TOO FAST!!!’ while waving the bat in the direction of their cabin.  I look at the herberts and they temporarily stop laughing before shouting back ‘SORRY MATE’ in that tailing off way that you hear when giving abuse to a passing driver on a road.  Once out of bat range we hear the Mirabelle accelerate again and the laughing start once more…

Our commentary continues after Thesp has regained his composure and we trundle off down the river in peace at last….

The point of this holiday was for this family to bond after what has been the motherfucker of all years.  Clearly I’m speaking from a personal perspective but I’m not hearing many good things about 2016 in general so far so I’ll assume it’s just been crud all round and continues to be so with crap on all sides from death to illness to life changing decisions affecting my tranquillity arc.

We had a fantastic time in Norfolk and joking aside I recommend it to anyone looking for a peaceful getaway within this country.  The weather was excellent, which was a bonus, and the people were friendly and welcoming if not slightly eccentric and occasionally stupid.

And so back to work. Christmas is imminent. Bring. It. On.

Next Time: A ‘Moment of Clarity’ as I discuss alcohol and its part in my downfall.

Holiday time.  This year it’s England not through direct choice but more due to circumstances.  A tough year meant that all plans were thrown into flux and so the usual early booking scenario for the top apartment in the Med was hanging in rags. Call me old fashioned but I’m never getting on the package holiday bus at midnight from a Spanish airport not knowing where I’m going only to find I’m in pisshead hell with no escape.

By the time we reached July we still had nothing and so went for a couple of weeks in North Norfolk staying in what appeared to be a converted stable. I was sceptical but also know that Jen has always secured top drawer accommodation when we’ve gone away so didn’t panic too much.  She showed me the place on line and it looked great so I was happy enough.  It was secluded yet near enough to everything we needed.  It also had a games room with ‘wiff waff’ table, full-size snooker, dart board, 80’s games machine and electric organ.  It was a proper 80’s pub games room.  Just to be clear the electric organ wasn’t the draw but the tennis court and trampoline were particularly appealing to the kids

We could easily have stayed at home this year but I felt the need to spend some proper time with the kids who have suffered through all the adult shit I’ve had to deal with.  They are rightly innocent to that crap and so needed some Dad and Mum attention.

We load up the car with what seems like half the house and I attach the bike rack tightening the one major bolt to the point of exhaustion such is my trust in it and we head off.  As it’s me and I’m heading off on holiday it is raining hard.  To explain this you need to understand that I once visited a water park in Majorca in a thunderstorm where I really needed a coat and a blanket.  I’ve also hired cottages in Kent and Dorset where I’ve been forced to light the fire in August.  I’m not lucky with weather wherever I am so my expectations are low.

It’s only a three-hour journey and we arrive, in the rain at about 1600 hours.  I am now in literally in the middle of nowhere and as a Londoner I start to hyperventilate, I mean what if the Wi-Fi doesn’t work or have sufficient power to maintain my online bollocks?   I enter the building after liberating the key form a locked key case by the door and before the bag I am carrying has hit the floor I’m logging on….

The Wi-Fi doesn’t work.  Holy. Fuck.  I’m in a social media Dead Zone…. My hell, My nightmare…. I am on Devil’s Island.  Jen rightly ignores my woe and looks around the place.  It’s lovely and in reality it provides everything we need to relax without being bound to the intergoogles.

While Jen and I work out the layout and appliances the kids run off and meet the farmers dogs and disappear into the games room.

The place is really nice and feels like home and so we settle in for the chill time.

The next morning and I’m getting ratty that the Wi-Fi doesn’t work.  This is really quite pathetic on my part but shows how reliant we all are on our devices.  Of course some off you will talk a load of bollocks about how this is a good thing while you read this blog on-line.  It’s not a good thing.  We’ve evolved beyond struggling for technology particularly when you’ve paid for it in advance.

The ‘farmer’ appears at my door.  I’m disappointed to find that he has all his own teeth and isn’t wearing a jerkin with a lace up neck.  He’s not actually a farmer at all but a bloke with his own fence erecting company.  The plot I’m on hasn’t actually been a farm since 1948 which begs the question as to why it smells like a pig has shat on my face.  Ahhhh…. ‘The smell of the countryside’ as the Monster would say between explosions.

I explain my Wi-Fi trauma to Matthew the Fencer who says:

‘oi don’t know nuffink aboot thaaaat….’opefully it’ll kick in layterrr’.

He doesn’t actually sound like that but that’s what I get.  He suggests that I use 4G as if that is acceptable.  I’m about to use the traditional North London greeting of ‘Listen Cunt…’ but Jen, seeing the c-bomb is imminent, interjects with complete diplomacy pretending that we/I am here for the countryside and it’s not really that important.  I slunk off to the games room to chuck some darts while swearing a lot leaving Jen to exchange pleasantries with the Fencers wife.  Jen’s great with Yokels.  She reminds me of Captain Cook bringing news from the King to an Island of peaceful Hawaiians moments before they tore him apart.  Jen is the expert at this stuff, I am not.

We head into the local village to get an idea of what is near.  Everything I need is there except the Wi-Fi or phone signal.  It’s 1952.  The local boozer looks good and there are a couple of eateries and a shop.  I’m happy…..well, as happy as a man without Wi-Fi can be.

We load up on provisions and head back to the homestead to relax and play with the kids.

You don’t realise how stressed you are until you stop and do nothing.  The contrast between the norm and relaxation is stark.  I’m really enjoying my job at the moment and, bizarrely, am looking forward to getting back involved in it but it does take it out of you and you only notice it when you stop.

With our bearings got we take our first trip out.  It’s a barn complex which is ‘great for kids’ although I doubt it will push the buttons of the Instagram/Xbox North London kids I have sired.

We turn up and all seems ‘Holiday in England’ drab.  It’s a farm type deal with pig feeding, local low-level artwork and the like.  There’s a small circus on the site and a less than crazy golf with the easiest, gaping holes this side of the Red Light in the ‘Dam.

We meander around the place and I notice a Norfolk Cider shop which deserves my attention.

The proprietor of this shack is a tall skinny bloke with teeth that could eat an apple through a tennis racket.  They are not so much in his mouth as sticking straight out as if hammered in place by someone unable to get the required grip on the ‘nail’.  He’s doing that thing I hate, fake cheerfulness covering some deep rooted melancholia probably related to some bodies in a barn covered with a tarpaulin that he regularly visits to say ‘sorry’….

He’s alone yet singing or whistling some 70’s muzak lift tune.  I wait to see if some other jubs will enter his alcohol emporium and on cue some tattooed fuckwits enter his lair.  He’s on them like a Jaguar with flashing teeth and smothering personality.  He pouring away samples quicker than a Russian lab technician and I’m almost tempted to dive in for a free piss up but realise that cider makes me punchy and he’s ripe for some attention.

I choose to watch from afar and it’s clear that he’s an expert in playing the crowd.  He’s telling yarns of apples and 16^th Century presses and the assembled lumpents are lapping it up quicker than the free samples he’s pouring down their necks.  This is the difference between London and the shires.  He’s proud of his product and won’t just say ‘cider over there’ he’s selling it even though no one is buying it.  You could argue ‘what’s the point?’…. it’s a fair argument given that he has to feed himself, donate to the local church for his sins and replace the tarpaulin regularly but the point is dedication to the craft and local product.  I admire him for that but he can stick his rancid, grubbing fingered made, bilge water right up his hoop…. It’s cloudy and appears to have bits of beak and twig floating in it.  I ain’t touching it.

We leave underwhelmed and over charged…. The full glory of the English holiday in a sentence.

The following day the weather appears average so we decide on a bike ride.  You can’t really do this shit in London directly from your own door as you might get mown down within seconds by someone without car insurance.  Every time the kids go out on a bike in London I assume that I will be opening a door to a policeman and a priest within half an hour.  Back in the day kids treated their bikes like they had cars.  It was an essential tool of the teenager. Can’t really do that now in London, too dangerous, too much hurry.

We cycle off down some country lanes and see no cars at all until we reach a village 2 miles away.  It’s a joy.  We pick up a cycle route along an old disused railway line and peddle along a route for about 5 miles.  We see no one along the way and the kids love the freedom.

The route takes you to the old station house that is now a tea room for old people.  As we arrive I notice a troupe of old men in blazers with military badges inspecting the station.  Clearly some kind of shit is going down and it’s the worst kind of shit….Local Shit.

Jen and the kids go into the station house for the necessary tea and a slice of cake.  I stay outside and lock up the bikes.  Within a minute I’m accosted by the tea woman who has left her den to tackle a problem she has seen from within.

‘What yea doing?’ she says….

‘Good afternoon, aged and toothless old local crone, I am securing my transport to this temporary fence in order to dissuade local villainy from purloining my goods’ says I….’As you can see (gestures with hand) I am using the very best lock money can buy as a means of….’

….she interrupts…

‘No one has ever locked a bicycle here before’ she says….

‘I’m not in your coven Witch…. I’m from London where these (points to bikes) would be gone in seconds unless lashed to a tree or similar large object.  Now bring the tea,  you know nothing of my world…’   She lurches off.

A lovely cuppa and a slice of carrot cake was had in the idyllic surroundings of Whitwell and Reepham station.

With an upturn in the weather to something approaching a scorcher, the next day we head to the beach.  The beach is my true hell as there are no redeeming features to it.  Sand, wind, heat, flesh…..white, white flesh.  We arrive in a small town and wind our way through the seafront shops following the massive line of traffic the ‘beach side’ car park.  We park up and everyone gives me their bags and I trudge my way along the endless road like a pale donkey climbing a Mexican mountain pass.

After about 35 minutes with no sign of a beach I suggest to Jen that the ‘beach side’ car park might be taking the piss.  She tells me to stop moaning and I point out that I can return her bag to her at any point…. We walk in silence with the kids lagging behind in the endless queue of people heading to nowhere like refugees at the Macedonian border.

And then, over the brow of a hill I see the oasis…. The beach.  We have come to the beach because Jen wants to read a book on the beach in the sun.  No one else wants the beach.  The book and the reading of it are the thing.  Jen has a peculiar vision in her head as to what kids want.  In essences she thinks they want what she wants or want to do what she did as a kid.  They don’t.  They are kids of a generation beyond ours and so need more than the simplicity of the beach.  However, the kids are prepared to have a good time.  They have music, they have books, they have inflatables and the world’s greatest Frisbee:  the ‘Aeroring’. Similarly, I am tooled up with kindle, iPod and DAB radio.  I’ve covered every eventuality.  I will artificially enjoy myself in spite of the situation.

At the cusp of the beach it is noticeable that the lame and overly nourished go for the land grab.  To be fair they have walked far enough for their twisted and swollen legs and so us, the fit, stride on another mile further up the beach to where the beautiful people are.

Now if this were a film I would now be appearing on a sand dune in a heat haze laden down with stuff…. I am Gary Cooper in ‘Beau Geste’ marching to my doom while being harangued by Jen (Sgt. Markoff) to ‘Keep Walking!!!’.  Finally, we reach an acceptable spot where I collapse in a heap in the blistering heat among the pale tattooed masses.

I make no bones about I moaning like a porn star as I’m out of my element but I put on the headphones and look for a sandwich.  It was at this point that it struck me that we had no food.  I look at Jen who has the face of someone who has also realised that it’s lunchtime and we have no food and 1 bottle of water 4 miles from the nearest shop.  One thing is for certain….. I ain’t going.  My job is to carry shit, her job is to fill the bags with the shit.  I have completed my part of the bargain, Jen has failed.

Well, I’m here now so I might as well get involved.  I strip down to shorts and flaunt my pale blue body to the assembled toothless.  Tattoos are a big part of youth culture these days but I’m surrounded by the old school tattooed.  Ham hock arms containing smudged black blobs, there is no precision in these etchings, no finesse.  It’s all gothic writing with names like ‘Amber’ or ‘Kyle’ or Hebrew script down the back.  Tattoos used to be rare now they are a standard for all ages and all sizes.

I’m lying there sweating and notice Jen looks forlorn.  I pull out the phones and through gritted teeth ask her what is wrong.

‘Nothing’ she says….

‘Why don’t you read your book, I mean, that’s why we are here…..right?’ I suggest….

‘Forgot it’ she mumbles…..

It’s a glorious moment for me.  This kind of schadenfreude never happens when Jen is involved as she’s generally faultless. I return the phones and continue to inwardly smile in glory only to fall asleep and get burnt to a crisp as Jen never warned me that white pale skin needs protection in 30 degree heat.

She controls this relationship, she probably controls the weather so I’ll keep my trap shut and will return to the shadows where I carry bags for an eternity over sand dunes and the tattooed bloated bodies of the toothless….

Next time:  The glory of ‘Greggs’ in Norwich, the great Wi-Fi reconnection, seal watching with Chas ‘n’ Dave and the house of a thousand Spiders….

It’s been a tough three months.  The sort of time in your life that you wish you didn’t have to face but as we have thumbs, can use rudimentary tools and basically run the planet from the top of the food chain, you have to.   You have to stand up and be counted and put all the other petty stuff behind you to deal with a real issue….and I did.

On the 16^th April 2016 at 0738 hours my Mum died.

Now, I could easily not write this but I feel I must.  I have to write it for myself and so that what it was like for me is recorded somewhere. You, dear reader, unfortunately will be the witnesses to my misery.

Some of you will think I’m wrong to write this tale and you might be right but I’ve been wrong on many occasions in my life so this isn’t really going to make much difference given the decisions made following my Mum’s death.  This is my catharsis so if you don’t want to be part of it stop now.

Of course most of this tale is filled with sadness, tears and bitterness but other parts are so ludicrous they have bizarrely become the most tragic and funny stuff I’ve ever been involved with. Some parts of this are so pathetic and horrific that if you put it in a film you’d scarcely believe it.  I should point out that I don’t feel I’m different or have been wronged more than any of you may have been.  It’s just my version of the madness of family at a time of crisis.

My closest mates have been subjected to these stories during their many hours of consoling me in pubs throughout the North London area and for that I am eternally grateful.

Ok…. Let’s go….

My Mum died after a four-year battle with cancer.  The specifics of it aren’t relevant but it was the type that will get you eventually and it duly did.  I always knew we would get to this point and so I had prepared myself for it way in advance….as you know I’m a bit of a prick like this or as I like to call myself ‘a realist’.

I began to see the end coming at Christmas time.

Christmas is a time of perpetual trauma in my family.  Actually let me clarify, not MY family but the family created by my parents.  In my house we have laughter and fun from the 1^st December and throughout Christmas but in the family home where my younger brother and parents reside it’s a different matter.

In recent years it has been filled spite, paranoia, hate and nastiness because no one, and I mean no one, accepts anyone else’s opinion. Yeah, Yeah, I know I have this attributes but not to these professional levels.

Whenever I would visit there was a simmering tension in the air.  You didn’t actually need people in the room for this it was just seemed to seep through the fabric of the place.  In reality this has been going on for decades and in the previous house also where my life was filled with shouting, aggression and low level violence all of which was created by my Father who is a man capable of such extreme nastiness and both verbal and mental abuse that he could make it into a horror movie.

As a child of the 70’s I understood it.  You couldn’t do this shit now as someone would complain but then it was par for the course so I don’t think I’m different or alone but my old man is a different kind of monster.  He’s a man with no remorse, no conscience and no sorrow and all these attributes came to the fore in the final months of my Mum’s long struggle and I was there to witness them in mind boggling 3D technicolour.

In roughly 1992 I left the family home and moved into a flat with and a girl.  It was the right time as I was in a serious relationship.  At some point you need to be able to be an adult without worrying that someone would knock on the door to see if you want a cup of tea.  I was happy and excited and saw it as my jump into adulthood.  I never went to University where life and growing up (a bit) is thrust upon you.

When you leave home you leave the ‘bubble’ created by your parents.  Generally, you soak up the ideas and attitude your parents inflicted on you so it’s good to leave while you are young enough to forge a personality of your own.  I left at 22.

My younger brother has never left.  He has remained in the ‘bubble’ for 42 years old and so is a lone Epsilon soldier within the safety of it.  He doesn’t like me much (he’s not alone in this) as he has soaked up a lot of the opinion my parents have of me.  They see me as some sort of left wing liberal because I won’t instantly agree with all of their 1970’s views.

The ‘bubble’ has always protected my brother.  There has never been a need for him to sort anything for himself, most of his meals were handed to him and the basics of living on your own like washing, cleaning and the like were done while he was at work.

Part of adulthood is coming home at night to look in the fridge only to find one solitary mini gem lettuce and a can of Fosters as you forgot to buy any food, or realising 30 minutes before you need to leave for work that you have no shirt washed or ironed and so you wear a dirty one.  He had experienced none of the day to day shit we all do and so has become a sort of mini version of my Dad, all opinion and puffed up chest with a tendency to tell you you’ll have your face smashed in at any point. Fear not dear reader, advanced warning generally means no violence imminent in my experience so I’m not losing any sleep.  The only person who sees him as scary is him….

Since I left home I have had a lot of grief from the ‘bubble’.  Endless poor advice, opinions thrust upon me about house purchasing or parenthood which are two things my father knows everything yet nothing about.  Over the years I have been only sporadically in and out of the ‘bubble’ as it’s not a comfortable experience.  Bitterness and jealousy rules and even my partial goodwill was rarely reciprocated.  I’ve been charged for childcare, I’ve been threatened with suing over an injury at my house and with police complaints with the phrase ‘I’ll have your job’.  As you can see it’s not a barrel of laughs.  Luckily I ignored it all and carved out my own life.

And then the ‘bubble’ had to deal with a real problem and not one fixed with ignorance and arrogance.

When my Mum reached the final two months of her life I wasn’t talking to her.  We had fallen out over something trivial.  This wasn’t odd.  It happened a lot during my life after leaving home as I wasn’t keen to continue to believe the opinions that were put on me.  On this occasion the fall out was due to my lack of thanks to my younger brother for being at home looking after my mother.  This was a recurring theme but I’d had enough of it as I had my own family and had left home 25 years previously so was of the opinion that if you remained in the ‘bubble’, paying next to fuck all for a hotel service the least you could do was keep an eye on the ill parent.

My lack of gratitude resulted in a swift barrage of expletives being shouted at me down the phone and a period of silence.  To be fair I knew it was coming as I have always been able to tell that grief was imminent from the tone of my mum’s opening line on a telephone call.  The problem really stems from my parents’ insistence that my brother although 42 years old was really somewhere between 15 and 19 years old and so should be protected and praised on a daily basis.  To be fair to him he was unaware of these conversations but I knew what he thought of me as I’d been privy for a 20-minute conversation once where they had failed to put the phone down correctly.  Nasty stuff, ruining me and stating that I was a waste of time and no good for my own kids… I was used to the face-to-face fakery so accepted the first of many apologies with a similar fakery but you never really forget that kind of stuff as it’s not meant for your ears so tends to be the real thoughts rather than the cobblers.

After a few days of silence, I received news that my Mum had been admitted to a hospice with a curt one-line text message from my brother.

The word ‘hospice’ only really means one thing in my mind so after several failed attempts to get information from the twat himself I contacted the Hospice directly.  Within four days I was sitting in front of a Doctor, a very nice nurse and a social worker where I pushed for a timeframe on how long my Mum would have left.  The answer was eight weeks if a last ditch form of delaying chemotherapy failed.  I must admit that this took me aback slightly even though I knew, deep down what was coming in the conversation.

I now had to process this info for myself. So I told the Doctor that I would inform the family but not my Mum.  She had already told me that she did not want to know.

I went home and got my head around it as much as was possible and decided that my brothers would need to know the score so I firstly contacted my older brother who, as expected, reacted with total maturity and intelligence and said he would do anything he could to heal old wounds. Basically he would do the right thing and he made good on that promise.

The younger brother would be trickier.  He is a tense, highly strung individual prone to mental explosions when his emotional level hits critical mass. I rang him up and he was full of irrelevant questions about long since departed Consultants and Doctors who no longer picked up their phones.  I then told him what I had been told and told him to start preparing himself for what would be the inevitable outcome.

He wasn’t having it…

He then described the hospice Doctor who had given me the time frame with the ultimate family word.  It’s an expletive that I rarely use as I was brought up with it and heard it a million times as it was used to described most people outside of The ‘bubble’.

“Bullshitter”

‘You’re a Bullshitter’ could be the family motto. Paranoia, inadequacy and jealousy are the reasons for this word’s frequent use. . Within the ‘bubble’ anyone doing better than those within it was a liar, anyone spouting an opinion that the ‘bubble’ didn’t agree with had got it wrong, if you could be brought back down to earth they would be the ones to do it and they would do it with joy.  It was a family trait that I hope I have pulled myself away from.

‘Bullshitter’.  A Doctor in a hospice.  A professional.  How anyone could think that this man would take a guess or lie to someone in such a fatal position is beyond comprehension.

I couldn’t really help my brother from this point on and so decided to just do what I had to do.  His opinion would become irrelevant as he clearly wasn’t emotionally up to the job.

Over the next few days I decided that until I knew that this was it, until I knew for certain that there was no more chance for my Mum I would keep the 8-week diagnosis between my brothers and myself.  The final chance was they last ditch Chemotherapy but it wasn’t too long before it became evident that that wasn’t going to work as she started to deteriorate quite rapidly.

Now I’m not going to go into the tragic details of that 8-week period and what happened to my Mum as that would be even more inappropriate than this story is already but suffice to say it was heart-breaking and hard to watch.

To see someone fall apart mentally, emotionally and physically without having any control over it is extremely difficult for everyone involved.  The problem with death is the lack of control that anyone has over it. You are helpless.  Helpless to the diagnosis, helpless to the treatment and almost helpless to the time scale.  It is a limbo state, a ticking clock…a long, lonely walk to the inevitable.  All you can do is be there for the person facing it, if you are lucky enough to have that time, and bond with those that are left.  You need to support each other, close ranks and see it out in the most painless way possible.

Of course, none of this happened.

What happened was a pile up of ‘Blues Brothers’ car chase proportions from what is a car crash of a family.  A family created by nasty, with nasty would be nasty till the end as that was all it knew.

Every Story has a Monster and this is where our one comes in…

My father is a man of outstanding belligerence.  He should really be applauded for his refusal to do anything he should do, or needs to do.  He’ll probably live till he is about 200.  He’ll see us all out even in his twisted state.  He’ll drink Whisky till it fills his veins and he’ll smoke till his lungs are black and charred.  He is driven by nastiness and brutal, brutal honesty. Actually that’s not correct.  None of it is honest, it is just his opinion, his belief that you are a fucking idiot who knows nothing and he knows everything even the stuff he has no experience of.  He demands respect yet gives none in return.  It’s all about ‘Me, Me, Me’ even when his wife lay dying in agony.

For years this approach worked for him.  He ruled with a rod of iron and in some ways it was easier to just go with the flow but we all have a breaking point and I reached it long ago. As a small child I consciously decided that making him laugh was the easy route and so I had an alright time.  My brother Dan was a moodier kid than me and so he got most of the rage.  He wouldn’t conform or pander to the whims of a bully and he suffered for it.

To be fair up till the age of about 12 you were fairly safe enough.  Well, safe as in you weren’t totally destroyed by his self-proclaimed superior intelligence and wit. You merely had that 70’s childhood of parents arguing and physically fighting, the odd dry slap and simmering tension throughout the family home interspersed with ‘Jim’ll Fix it’, Len Fairclough being arrested and The Dick Emery Show. Standard stuff.  Oh, Christmas was good as a kid though, a bit like WW1 and the football match…. Except for one occasion when my Mum bought my Dad the ‘wrong kind of Christmas card’ and there was a massive explosion of violence 2 days before Father Christmas arrived.  Lovely.

When you reached your teenage years though you started to take his eye.  As you became aware of yourself he became aware of you and so you would be crushed on many occasions for pretty much for fuck all.  His job seemed to be making sure he was in charge and you knew he was in charge whether it be insisting you gave half your Arsenal programmes from the 1971 double winning season (a gift from The Eternal Champion) to your Australian Cousin, grabbing you by the throat 5 minutes before your Girlfriend picked you up or simply insisting you cleaned your shoes every morning at 0600 hours otherwise you were ‘a filthy pig’.  Luckily football programmes (even classic ones) are usually painful reading, the girlfriend at the time knew the issues and fixed me and I don’t clean shoes for no cunt anymore unless I’m standing before someone I respect like a Judge or a potential new employer.  The old man was all about the domination and he loved it.  He confused fear and hate with respect and love.  We were the beaten dogs who needed food so kept the peace rather than tore the throat out.

But then you grow up and the fear leaves you.  You become an adult with real issues and they become more important than the past.  My Dad just became a thing, a memory that could be side-tracked as I didn’t need his help.  I’d left home, I was fully employed, I’d never needed his money, I’d never needed bailing out so he became an irrelevance even in his aged, twisted state with ailing health he is hard to love.  He now needed me but I was reluctant to dive back in…… unfortunately I had no choice.

When the inevitable time came to tell my Dad that Mum had no more chances and could not be saved and was in the last days of her life I visited him.  I had to tell him to his face because that was the right thing to do.  I went to the care home he was in and told him.

In a stunning turn of events he appeared to show emotion, not for himself but for my Mum.  I felt for him and so promised that I would do everything I could to do everything properly for him as he wasn’t able to do it.  I felt strangely happy…..but I was wrong to feel that way as it turned out it was merely another trick from the arch manipulator.

The last two weeks for my Mum were the worst.  She knew it was coming and there was nothing I could do or say that would calm her.  It was like a slow drive and drop off a cliff handcuffed to the steering wheel of a car.  A Hopeless scenario.  This was the time for the bonding. Let me rephrase that this should have been the time for the bonding but it was the complete opposite.

Instead of pulling together my younger brother started to go fully breakdown. He started to cause problems in the hospice.  He was aggressive and abusive to the staff who were literally angels. They complained to me or it was brought to my attention by the Doctor.  He then ramped it up by threatening to come to my house to batter me as I didn’t agree with him on things like whether my Mum’s relatives should visit her in the hospice.  He felt that was all fake on their as they should have been visiting her all the time anyway.  This is of course complete bollocks and indicative of his world in ‘the bubble’ where that is all that matters.

He was also of the belief that me arranging for people to visit Mum was ‘giving the game away’ to her as she would know that she was dying.  I pointed out to the thick fuck that she was in a hospice and she had bravely discussed funeral arrangements with me on a number of occasions.  He said he was going to complain that they weren’t doing enough in the hospice to save Mum. In the end I asked him to show me the blood pressure monitor in Mum’s room.  He looked about and said ‘Ha…exactly’ as if he had found the smoking gun of hospital incompetence.  I explained that one didn’t exist as it was no longer required.  This was a waiting room with a one-way door.   Nothing registered.  In the end I was told by him that he would only visit Mum alone as he ‘knew her best’. To this day I’m still at a loss as to what this actually means.  He added tension to the tension to create Super Mega Tension… you could almost see it glowing around him.

When the day of days came it was no better.  Mum had gone and I was in the room with her trying to get my head together about how I was going to tell everyone, how I was going to break the news.  It wouldn’t be a shock but I really didn’t want to do it…..who would?  Who wants to spread misery and sadness?  But if I didn’t who would?

For the last 24 hours of my Mum’s days on this planet I was in a room with her and my younger brother. Dan had gone to work aboard and was on the plane when I was told of the breathing change triggering the end.  He could do nothing 30,000 feet up but my younger brother said ‘Got out of it again has he?’ like it was some kind of game he didn’t want to play.  I sat there while my brother spoke about Mum being dead in her company before she had gone.  I had to constantly remind him that she was sedated and could probably hear him. His lack of life experience is fucking desperate and in reality I should pity him.

When I’d said my last goodbyes to my Mum I went home to recharge.  My Dad needed to be told but in a rare moment of adulthood the younger brother insisted that he be the one to do it.   I knew this would go wrong and so put myself on standby.  As expected I was called to the care home within the hour.

I arrived at the place and prepared to comfort my Dad.  Unsurprisingly he was inappropriately chipper.  I walked into his room and was confronted with a question as my younger brother left in a hurry:

‘How did you get here?’  he says.  I told him I had walked.

‘Have you considered going that way? (pointing the wrong way)

‘….er….You know why I’m here right?….’  Says I…

‘…Yeah…your brother told me…your Mum’s died.  Down there (pointing the wrong way) is a pub.  It’s a good pub and behind it is a….’

‘..Have you lost your fuckin’ mind?..’ I interrupt.  ‘Mum has died….4 hours ago..’

‘…I know…. What do you want me to do about it?  You’re the big man with all the power who thinks he runs this family… ‘

….it was at that point that I clenched a fist, placed it calmly on his chin and issued a very violent warning.  He may be a monster but he had created me which means I can be a monster…. Monster 2.0 if you will.  It would have been easy to dispatch him there and then but I realised that I just wanted to go home to Jen and the kids.

I went home.  I rang our man in Hong Kong, who was perfectly in the country, and he took me out with the Spaniard to get drunk.  I got drunk, cried in the pub, went home and cried again.  Me Mum had gone and I was left with the idiots.

Throughout the funeral arrangements I was met with problems from my father and younger brother.  ‘Too much control’, ‘Think you’re the Big man’, ‘I’ll smash your teeth out’ the whole lot.  It’s not unusual for people to react this way following the death of a loved one but the issues and nastiness tend to be lower level I suppose.  Not liking the flowers, different opinions on songs and stuff like that.  I’m pretty sure it’s not normal during the funeral arrangements to be told by your father that you are ‘quite enjoying the attention’ that arranging it brought.

I stoically kept to the path to do the right thing for my Mum, the right things she wanted and not what I was told.  For example, my Father told me that she wanted ‘Ding! Dong! The witch is dead’ from the Wizard of Oz as a funeral song, my younger brother’s felt that he should be the only one in attendance as everyone else were ‘Wankers’ who left her on her own.  Friendship is a two-way street and my Mum could be very offish, aloof and snobbish so it was no shock that people weren’t beating a path to her door during her illness. I’ve seen her failings and I accepted them but it doesn’t distract from my love of her.

Of course the other reason is that people might not be able to deal with it mentally.  No one really wants to see an individual they love or even just know literally disappear before their very eyes in a slow, long decay.  But the main reason people aren’t involved in this stuff when they are not directly affected is because they have their own lives and their own problems.  They also assume, quite rightly, that the immediate family rally in these scenario’s and deal with it in their own way and how they want it.  That is the normal way. But this isn’t a normal family. It’s a mess.  A mess created by a monster set on creating havoc and horror wherever and whenever it could.

The funeral went smoothly and how my Mum would have wanted it to.  No major religiousness, limited black from those in attendance and laughter afterwards.  I accepted the fake thanks and platitudes from my younger brother and father and carried on.  I knew at some point this bollocks would collapse and so it was merely a waiting game.

During the last weeks of my Mum’s time I promised her that I wouldn’t abandon my father and younger brother so I would visit him and ensure that they were ok.  Unfortunately, this didn’t last very long as you give these people an inch they take a mile.   They are the masters of badgering you into submission.

I decided I would visit my Dad every Saturday morning to see if he was ok or needed anything.  He’s in a home but he has complete freedom and it’s not like the classic old peoples’ home where everyone is placed in the sun room in a circle for hours just waiting for death.  This place is nice.  Lovely staff, decent food and it’s clean.  He can even participate in his favourite activity of attempting to keep the whisky distilleries of Ireland in business. They are happy to pick him up when he falls over and will take his regular abuse and threats with little complaint.

I was visiting as agreed but as expected the phone calls start.  Midnight. The phone goes and it’s him asking to talk to my son who’s 12.  I explain that it’s a school night and a 12 year old is in bed but am received with a ‘so what?’.  I point out the time and perhaps it’s a bit late for a call but am told that time means nothing to him and if I didn’t want to pick the phone up I should have left it.  This is the logic.

Over the next few weeks of visits he ups the nasty.  Personal attacks on me about various things including how thick I was a kid (the classic quote being ‘We didn’t bother with you as it was clear early on that you weren’t up to much’), how I show him no respect (correct for once) and how I have stolen ‘his’ money.  Well I didn’t steal any money.  He had no money.  All I did was distribute it in accordance with my Mum’s wishes.  This meant that Dan and I got nothing but our kids did which was fine with us both.  The younger brother got the majority of the pennies available….so be it.

The other outstanding revelation from the old man was that I have been jealous of all my mates for years and in particular our man in Hong Kong.  I’m not sure where this came from.  He must have met Bun about four times in 30 odd years and probably not at all in the last 20 years. Apparently though I’ve always been in his shadow as he was successful and I wasn’t.  Interesting.  I’ve never seen myself as more or less successful than anyone I know.

The only envy I have in life is that of wanting a bigger house and even then it would need extensive acreage and a ‘Grand Designs’ type build so It’s a dream really like winning the lottery.  I’m happy and pleased for all my mates as we all seem to be doing alright.  He took little interest in my life as a child, a teenager and a man.  He is a ‘taker’ not a giver.  I reminded him that in my adult life I’d played over 650 amateur football matches he had seen the sum total of none over a 33-year period.  I was blamed for that.  I was told that when I was nine I asked him not to come to a primary school match.  Because of that he never came again.

The fact is the Old man doesn’t know my mates but uses it as a lever to bring you down to his low level, gutter attitude as he’s not good with ‘nice’. He thrives off hate and agitation.  He likes to rile you, it’s his thing.  He wants the ‘kick off’ and the control.  I’ve seen him insult his wife, his siblings, his in-laws, nephews and nieces, his kids, his friends, his carers and complete strangers.  He’s the fucking master of it even in his current state.  Even though you know this it doesn’t make it any less nasty and hurtful…. In fact, it probably makes it worse as you know it’s coming, it’s not random, it’s not an illness, it’s a calculated approach to dominate and insult.

The old man is all about triggers and true to form he hit my trigger one morning when I visited him.

I turned up and he was more obnoxious than normal.  He was also pissed at 11 in the morning which of course made him more right than me when it came to any conversation we were about to have.  During the usual crap about me being a prick and repeated questions about ‘his’ money I noticed that he no longer mentioned my Mum in any way, shape or form.  He just ignored the fact that she had died as if it didn’t matter to him.  The fact was, it didn’t. He couldn’t care less.  He was only interested in whether he could continue to control us all.  It was my moment of clarity.  I just had to go and not come back.  The selfish old fucker had, through lack of action, made it clear.

Before I left I asked him why he didn’t mention me Mum anymore and he said:

‘…She’s dead.  What’s the point?  She ain’t looking down on us…there’s no heaven…She’s gone..’

He was right.  She had gone and so I had to go also.  I didn’t need this shite any more, I had a family that I loved and didn’t argue with or try to ruin.  Why was I wasting my time with a bloke who cared for fuck all except himself?  So I left to a load of abuse hurled at me over my shoulder. No looking back.  Fuck the pair of them.

Two days later I received a phone call from the looney asking me when I was next visiting.  I said that I needed a break from both him and my brother as I’d had enough or the pair of them so I wasn’t coming.  In classic up-the-ante fashion he told me that they had both had enough of me.

‘Good’ says I, ‘Then we are all happy’ and that was that.  No more effort required.

My parents didn’t really like each other, particularly in the last 20 years. They were like that couple in Father Ted who put on a front when the public can see them but really hate each other in private.  During my Mum’s last weeks, I asked her everyday whether she wanted to see my father.  Every time she said ‘no’ or shook her head when she could no longer speak.  That says it all.  My mum had a stressful life with my Dad.  I believe that ultimately that stress is what caused her illness.  Endless grief for decades with someone utterly selfish, bullying and demanding.  None of us were saints but only one was a monster.

As I said some of you will think this blog is a bit out of order and shouldn’t have been written.  Some of you will think it disloyal to air this stuff publically.  I can see that but I can also see that being treated like a cunt behind closed doors and taking buttoning it up isn’t required. To sort yourself out sometimes you need to chuck it out there and this is what it is for me.

The ultimate challenge in life is coming to terms with the loss of someone you love.  Death makes you helpless.  There are minimal opportunities where you can do anything about it.  What is worse? Hitting the deck from an exploding vein or heart, being crushed by a skip lorry, hitting a parked car in the fast lane on your motorcycle or being eaten away by a disease you cannot stop?  They’re all the same but with varying degrees of shock for those left picking up the pieces.

People say they want to be at the bedside when someone goes but in reality it is horrible.  The utter helplessness is horrible.  I was with my Mum for all the ‘moments’.  Only I was there when they told me she had 8 weeks (8 weeks and 1 day was the actual time it took), only I was there when she was told there was no more hope or treatment and only I was there when she breathed her last.  Those moments wake me up at night as if they had just happened.  They haunt me and will forever.

My Mum was the glue in this car crash of a family unit and now she is gone.  What’s left is a mess and it’s not really a mess I care to mop up anymore.

As my half-brother, The Eternal Champion, once said with regard to our Dad…’You reap what you sow’ and they truly have…enjoy the harvest freaks…

For my Father and younger brother I’ll use the words of Tom Hardy as Reggie Kray in ‘Legend’:

“…. You’re wasting my fuckin’ time…. Wankers!!…. the lot of ya…. Now get out me way…”

Now, I’ve wasted enough of your time and my time on this shower…

Next time some fun.  My adventures in Amsterdam with football teams.  If you were there, fear not… I’m full of discretion.

It’s called ‘…is it the one with the big flappy hands and Adams apple…?’

Onwards ….

I don’t have many useful skills in my personal armoury.   I can play football a bit, I can dispatch Guinness, Rioja, Malbec and Jack with contempt, I’m good at addressing a problem head on, I can start an argument in an empty room yet remain calm in a crisis and identify an idiot without them opening their mouth.

I do however excel in one particular area.

I am the master of embarrassing myself in spectacular, knuckle biting fashion where onlookers cover their eyes, turn their backs and mutter things like ‘please don’t’ or ‘Somebody stop him’ and ‘for the love of God’. It’s a skill that I have honed over many years and continue to fine tune this day much to the fear of my children.

To be fair I am the architect of my own disasters either through stupidity, arrogance, alcohol or a combination of the three. Let’s start at the beginning… the opening salvo…

Launch. Warm. Puppy…

The loss of control

In 1976 I briefly joined the Navy. That’s not actually true. In reality I was dressed as a sailor to perform the Hornpipe in a school play with a troupe of similarly trained 7 year olds. This was a low level affair with low level ability in the form of one of the seas most famous dance routines…in fact it’s possibly the only sea dance routine. No ship here was required merely a dusty, dry school hall and selected apparatus used to give the impression of a ships deck.

The day before the main event we were all taken to the hall for the dress rehearsal at the hands of Mrs Butcher. Butcher was an animal. Twisted with multiple Sclerosis and held up by two crutches, she wobbled in at a frighteningly slow speed she seemed to take great pleasure in blaming her situation on us, the assembled innocents. I fuckin’ hated her as she was a bully….a bully of small children. During the rehearsal I found myself in dire need of a piss. At that stage in my life I was not in possession of the half gallon bladder I have now and so when I needed to go I needed to go immediately.

I looked at the clock. I recognised the time as time to go home and we still hadn’t had a practice of the routine. We were simply locked in a room with a broken old lady who wanted to berate us. I still remember the agony of holding it in but stood firm in the joyful knowledge that the bell would imminently ring and I could leave.

When the bell went Butcher decided to initiate the final practice. Animal. Up we stood. I raised my hand to ask if I could go to toilet and was screamed at twice and told to shut up. She pounded the keys with her gnarly fingers and we were off.

Even the most rudimentary Hornpipe involves a lot of movement. It’s a bouncy dance almost like you are actually performing it on a boat. I was in no state for bounce. I was in no state for anything.

I started to move and it was evident fairly sharpish that I was getting warmer in the crotch region. I looked down and noticed the seepage. Out of fear of the quadruped I thought the best course of action would be to speed up and get the job done quicker. In hindsight this was a bad idea but a truly magnificent sight as I had turned myself into a human urine sprinkler.

The more ferociously I hornpiped the frothier my dirty protest became.   No one was dancing but me and all the while Butcher continued to play. I stared at her and she stared at me… a double incontinent stand-off. No one giving an inch. She banged away at the keys, eyebrows raised, head bobbing, staring at me and me alone while I increased in speed. She must have thought that I was sweating profusely from my cobblers and nowhere else.

At the end I stood still in my own mess. Everyone else was outside my urine arc….The circle of piss was not breached and a small area of dusty school floor had been irrigated by me.

Silence prevailed. Where my shorts were once warm they were now cold, so, so cold. Around me the floor was wet. I just ran out ashamed and embarrassed by a child bully on sticks.

I imagine she has long since passed on. I just hope her last words weren’t ‘Shut up’ or ‘Rosebud’…I hope they were ‘Piss Boy’….

The blind stupidity

At 12, I sat in a classroom of fresh faced herbertry waiting for the results of a maths exam. The teacher, another bitter and twisted old spinster but with added religious zealotry took great pleasure in reading the results out from highest to lowest by the name of the pupil.

She finished the roll call without my name and then announced that she had ‘something special’ for the class. I knew it was my result but unlike now then I was an optimist and so thought ‘Fuck me….I’ve smashed it’.

I hadn’t smashed it…. I had achieved 11%.

She loved it. She revelled in it. She was smiling. Once she’d finished she chucked me out the room in humiliation to stand in the corridor as I ‘wasn’t worth teaching’. Lovely. Classic Catholicism.

I stood in the corridor and was approached by a jolly deputy head who asked me what had happened. I told him and he looked angry. He wasn’t angry with me, he was angry with the teaching method. He went in the class and after a short period of intense conversation I was reinstated to my desk much to the collective joy of my classmates as they were all more now clearly more mathematically minded than me. She never spoke to me again and never took any further interest in my mathematical ability or lack of.

It’s funny that I now deal in numbers and she is merely as dry as the dust that could be found in her undergarments all those years ago. Teachers eh? Spreading the love on their terms in the 1980’s…..

11% though….Jesus… you probably get 8% for managing to spell your name without adding a number… Hmm… maybe my Dad was right all along.

The massive error of Judgment…

At a party one night in my late teens I decided that I would try to pull the girl everyone appeared to want to get hold of.

When I look back now I find the general fascination with her at the time ludicrous. She was a dull individual and not a patch on the girls I ended up having a great time with. She was vain, boring and arrogant but she looked the part at that moment. She went out with an utter prick from the year above. Easily smashable, a potential weeper with a city boy name.

During a brief hiatus between my teen fumblings I found myself without female companionship. At this party I realised she was without her hugely punchable ponce so I thought I’d give it a go. I’d talk to her, lay it on the line, open up, all that shit. What did I have to lose?

….Hmmm… ‘A lot’ was the answer to that conundrum as I made it clear that I was going to do it before I did so a small crowd had gathered to watch my imminent death…

I moved in. I looked into her eyes, held her hand and, as planned, laid it on the line.

Now in my life I’ve made a lot of women laugh and on some occasions it was deliberate. This wasn’t deliberate and I wasn’t even naked.

She pissed herself with such ferocity that I thought she was going to require an ambulance. I’d never seen a woman laugh like that at the time or since. I stood up, looked about at the assembled pointers and laughers and retired to trap one in the toilet where I sat with my head in my hands for an extended period wondering why the fuck I thought that would work.

I saw her in adulthood in Waitrose. We never spoke. She was dealing with a child I assume was hers and I was looking at a packet of Weetabix….Kids… The great leveller. She looked the same…Blond, arrogant and pompous. I’m over it, I believe she maybe also.

The arrogant lack of preparation

The best man’s speech.   Christ. I can barely type it. Sometimes I sit on the train and something reminds me of that speech and it chills my blood.

I am a trappy tosser. I know this, most people know this but a few years back I was an even trappier tosser. I was a monumental prick but I’ve mellowed. I’ve mellowed because you can’t maintain that level of bollocks forever. Now I’m just a bloke who thinks he’s mostly correct with a foul mouth….it’s a family thing..

It was during the monumental prick phase that our man in Hong Kong asked me to be his best man. I was honoured, and I swore to myself that I wouldn’t fuck it up or let him down.

The stag weekend went well. York for the races. I was in control. I got everyone there, I got us in the Hotel, such as it was, I got us to the racecourse, I held the whip for 72 hours, I dealt with the City Boy who wanted to buy some booze thief with a massive rack a bottle of Champagne from the our whip by simply repeating to him that it ‘isn’t going to happen’ and I pointed out the women pinching one off in a gutter in daylight whilst wearing a fascinator to the group. It was my job to do all this stuff and I stood up and did it….no problem…

In the run up to the wedding Jen started to ask me about the speech. She rightly suggested that perhaps I should plan it in some way. I took no notice. I’m funny right? Easy… just speak, make people laugh, I’ve been doing it for years…What could go wrong?

A lot went wrong.

The panic kicked in during the pre-reception drinks when I realised that I was in a state of advanced refreshment. In itself this wasn’t a problem as when you are pissed you are generally indestructible however on this occasion I was twisted and panicked which is a fatal combination. I also had people coming up to me to tell how great the speech was going to be because I was ‘hilarious’ and they ‘couldn’t wait’ which was adding to the pressure. In order to bluff my way through it I maintained a cocky persona throughout the meal. I had nothing but thought, wrongly, that by being a flash bastard I would be able to wing it. My only real hope would have been for everyone to be as mangled as I was but that was a long way off.

When the time came I stood up, soaked up the expectation, saw the smiling face set to ‘laugh’ and died on my feet. I didn’t freeze I simply delivered the most humourless, incoherent speech in the history of weddings. I forgot all the best man etiquette and just rambled on to absolutely no laughter and disappointed faces. At one point I was prompted by a bridesmaid who I disliked intensely and almost snapped back an insult. I didn’t though as even in that moment of comedic death I managed to maintain my fuckin’ professionalism.

At the end I sat down to muted applause and went full Rioja. I looked at Jen. She grimaced….hmm… no help there… I looked about and no one would hold my gaze bar The Wand who clapped long and hard in sympathy. Fair enough, I had no complaints, I had asked for the humiliation and I got it. Flashness took control of my brain and I fucked it up.   It haunts me to this day as Bun and the Welsh Princess deserved better than that. I’ll fix it one day.

These are just some examples. They still sit with me as moments of extreme embarrassment but nothing compares to the last one. This was my masterpiece, my Mona Lisa, the pinnacle…

The Pencil Thief

In 2001 I went on holiday to the Greek island of Rhodes. It was very, very hot but at that point we had no kids to worry about and could simply drink and relax and stuff. We had a lovely apartment and as it was in the days before IPod’s I had to take CD’s and a player with me which allowed me to sit on the terrace every night listening to low grade metal and the odd classic album while enjoying a cold beer.

In the apartment below was a young couple from Essex. They need names so let’s call them Joey and Belinda for the purposes of this retelling. Joey was all Oi! Oi! with a slightly lazy eye and Belinda was classic Essex blond with a ponytail and an eye drawing chest.

For some reason never heard of in Essex she appeared to be a fan of Seattle grungers Soundgarden. I’d been playing a lot of them on the terrace and so we got chatting. They seemed decent enough in a ‘holiday people’ kind of way so we arranged to meet in the bar for a beer.

Over the next week we got on famously and saw them almost every night for dinner or cocktails and even though they were eight or so years younger we genuinely had a laugh and I only embarrassed myself on one occasions when I was drunk and fell straight into a paddling pool fully clothed… we got over it together, we laughed, we were drunk. During the holiday they got engaged and bought us a Surf and Turf dinner in celebration…. Happy days….

And then we reached that moment of dread that we all have on holiday. The moment that nobody wants with the ‘holiday friends’. The ‘let’s catch up when we get back’ moment.

Now I’ve been here before. In Marbella years previously during another relationship I had a similar scenario where we got friendly with a couple of odd bods who happened to support the Arsenal. My other half at the time arranged that we would meet up for a game when we got back. We did, it was weird, they were dull and we never did it again.

Belinda asked me for a phone number as they were going to have an engagement party upon returning to some hovel in Essex and wanted us there as we were the first to know about the engagement. I was thrown by her genuine enthusiasm and so made a fatal mistake.

The key is this scenario is to pretend you want to be ‘Best Friends Forever’ and then hand over an incorrect phone number. There were no mobiles of note then so you could get away with this as they couldn’t check your number right there on the spot. Piece of piss. It’s also harder now due to social networking and general honesty but this was 2001 and we were scum, selfish scum with no kids. We were kid-free and had loads of kid-free mates so didn’t need these extra kid-free fuckers.

Even with all these things in my favour I inexplicably handed over my correct home number. They left happy and I imagined that they were merely a couple of plums who I’d never see or hear from again.

A month later, at home, the phone started to ring. It was a regular ring, so regular in fact that I started to let the answer phone deal with it.

One night the phone rang and I made the mistake of picking it up. It was Belinda. The party was arranged and we were to be the special guests, the ‘holiday mates’, the couple set for a ritual burning in a poorly assembled, Essex located Wicker Man. I went with it, I faked joy knowing that when she told me the date, whatever the date, I would be doing something, anything else and it would be impossible.

I delivered the bad news that we were completely unavailable for the weekend picked and that weekend alone, any other weekend but that one and you couldn’t stop me from coming if you tried. The phone went silent. I then I heard the crying.

For a minute I thought I may have been the fiancée and I’d called the wedding off. She cried a lot. She was distraught. I’m not great with crying ladies unless they have really got on my tits and made me punch the wall of a pub before I leave without looking over back ever again (that’s another story). She carried on crying and so I relented. We were going to a party in Essex and Jen and I had been given free accommodation so we could party all night with our holiday chums.

A week later Jen and I are driving to the venue in silence. The party was in a guest house owned by a relative. We park outside and Jen and I look at each other. We are helpless. No words are exchanged.

Belinda rushes out and we are now trapped….any potential broken down car scenario is now not viable. There is no escape as accommodation is assured. This is my social Alamo.

We enter the building where I meet the family and a completely uninterested Joey. He couldn’t give a toss. I had made plans for this in the form of 24 cans of Fosters which I intended to make a massive dent in at my earliest convenience.   If I had to attend a party where the only two people I knew were the focus and one of them wasn’t bothered that I was there then I needed to be pretty smashed.

After the initial introductions in the first hour Jen and I were pretty much on our own. Belinda occasionally came to speak to us but Joey wasn’t interested and who could blame him?

Jen and I were now booze hostages, too drunk to leave, too sober to realise our situation was hopeless. In order to deal with the situation I decided to up the ante by increasing my intake dramatically. No one to talk to, no reason not to fill my mouth with refreshing alcohol. Jen was alright. The kindred spirit of women, fussing and flocking together coupled with the fact that she can function in any environment saw her through it so she didn’t need me, I was a lone lager warrior striding through the rolling tundra that was a B&B engagement party on the flightpath near a roundabout in Essex.

Hour Three: I started slurring.

When you are drinking and know you are drunk you are in trouble. Crossed eyes, stumbling and waves of nausea should be a cue to stop but due to a mutual reluctance to get involved I cracked on while sitting on a chair next to a sub-standard, Spinal Tap inspired buffet.

Hour Four: Des Lynam is pissed…I know this as his face is blurred…

I find myself waking up in my room surrounded by empty cans with ‘Match of the Day’ on maximum volume. For some reason I have been placed in my room in order not to do anything even remotely embarrassing. I’m insulted. I now have a hangover during a piss up which is never good but I’m at a party and so initiate the famous ‘second wind’, in essence, I’m going back in…

I stumble through the door to Party Central to find that most people have left. Jen brings me to a table where I’m introduced to a series of the happy couple’s late arriving relatives. I slur a greeting and head for another can.

In the group I notice an obnoxiously pissed bloke that isn’t me. It’s Uncle Brian and he’s a postman. I’ve never liked postmen, a strange breed, year round shorts and militancy is a tinderbox of stupidity. I was also, at that time, a Post Office investigator but was dealing with other employees and not postmen. I stride towards him looking for the confrontation and luckily he’s up for it as only a Postman can be.

We get chatting in a low level aggressive way and the simmering tension is being noticed around the table and particularly by Jen. Finally we get around to our employer, we are kindred spirits working for the Queen of this realm and we need to talk about this a lot.

Straight off the bat he makes it clear that he cannot stand Post officer investigators. Not a problem… I fuckin hate postmen. We’re off and running and it gets heated fairly quickly. Jen starts to sweat. I see her looking at me even though she is in a conversation elsewhere on the table. She looks stressed. I give her the thumbs up to calm her nerves but all she does is furrow her brow, tighten her lips and shake her head furiously. I’m pissed but I’m still just about on the button and so in an attempt to reassure her I smile at her and nod slowly. I then slowly turn, like Regan’s head in ‘The Exorcist’, to Uncle Brian and while pointing an accusatory finger I spit out the following:

“You!!… Brian the Postman (I emphasise the ‘P’)… Have you ever stolen a post office pencil for your own use?..”

All chatter in the room abruptly stops….

“You what?” says the Pencil Thief.

“A pencil” says I. “Do you have a Post Office issue pencil anywhere in your house?”

“Probably” he concedes…..

“Aha!!… Thief!!!!….” and then I cautioned him. Right there at the table.

“Brian the Postman….you do not have to say anything but it may harm your no doubt insufficient defence If you do not mention when questioned by me (points at self) something which you (point at him) later rely on in court (points to heavens)…. Anything you do say may be used in e-v-i-d-e-n-c-e (I spell it out)….Do you understand? Brian? Understand?”

(..as a quick side story, I once interviewed a bloke at two in the morning in a Central London police station with a very drunk policeman. After directing the bad man and his equally bad solicitor to the interview room by saying “Let’s get it on!!” in an accent more akin to a cowboy, He started the interview like this:

“You do not have to say anything…(silence for a good 15 seconds as he forget the rest of the caution he’s been using for 29 years)…..Ever….”

Fear not Dear Reader… I got him back on track)

Anyway…. back to the story…

I am surrounded by open mouths, horror etched on their faces as they are witnesses to a social car crash. The only person not static is Jen who is hurtling around the table to extract me like a Special Forces operative grabbing someone chained to a radiator in a dark room….

I’m dragged off to our cell…. All the while I’m shouting “Thief!!…He’s a Thief Jen!!!” while pointing at Brian who screams back:

“I only borrowed it… so it can’t be theft you twat”

Victory was mine. He felt the need to explain himself….Ha!!! Another villain exposed… he has cracked.

Jen forcibly bundles me into the room. She mostly shuts the door and turns to our horrified hosts to attempt an apology however I take advantage of the crack in the door to thrust through an arm, point my finger in Uncle Brian’s general direction to shout ‘Thief!!’ once more.

I don’t recall the tirade Jen gave me in that room as I had now been taken by the Booze Monkey. I was in a bad, bad way and her words and insults were nothing compared to my trauma at that moment. Eventually I pass out completely oblivious to my actions and dream a dreamy dream.

The following morning I awoke in the toilet. It was clear that I had been expelling the poison all night and also clear that I was still expelling the poison. I drag myself to my feet and attempt to get myself together. I look bad and feel worse.

I pull on some clothes and head to where I hear noise. In the dining area I find Jen and her new Essex family eating breakfast. Only Jen speaks to me and even that is begrudgingly. I attempt a friendly ‘hello’ but no one gives a fuck, they just continue to consume, Egg, Bacon, mushrooms, sausages and…Ahhh… upon seeing this outstanding platter I get the 9 second warning that partially digested Lager expulsion is imminent and so I immediately turn and run for my toilet and the solace of yacking at a volume sure to put everyone off their pig based meat feast.

Two hours later than we had planned and I am finally in a state capable to leave. I have managed to make it out of the room to the front door on the strict condition from Jen that I simply smile and speak to no one.

We reach the sanctuary of the car and Jen fires up the engine.

Normally when you leave someone’s house after an overnight stay they remain on the doorstep, all smiles and waves. Of course they could be mumbling ‘fuck off tossers’ through shit eating grins but you don’t hear that as you’re in a car, all you see is happiness and joy.

We spin the car round and turn our fake smiling faces to the door. Nothing. Not one wave, not one smile, not one person. All we see is a closed door, a door that had been closed for a while. The symbolism is overpowering.

We head off in silence for 25 minutes. In minute 26 Jen bursts out laughing. She knows that deep down even though it was excruciatingly embarrassing it was funny. Deep down we have successfully avoided a ‘knees up Mother Brown’ Essex wedding and will never see these plums again. Deep down Jen knows I will be in the best man’s speech at a wedding we will never be allowed in set foot in and deep, deep down Uncle Brian nicked that fucking pencil making me the best investigator she knows and If I’d been given more time I could have had in ‘C’ wing before the end of the night.

We receive no more teary phone calls and we receive no heavy parchment envelope filled with miniature horse shoes and bells inviting us to a wedding with a Pencil Thief… I unselfishly threw myself under the embarrassment train for Jen to save us from a second death.

Remember: It’s not about me…it’s about them…The Others….

More crud when I return from all the tears and dark stuff…

Onwards….

First blog of the Year.

This is a mini blog as I’m working on a bigger one about embarrassment and my ongoing association with it. This little effort was conceived on the top deck of a bus… a particularly mental bus I was on this Monday.

These blogs came about as a result of my Facebook posts of observations on a bus journey I took daily through North London. I was bored riding the same journey every day and so started observing the freaks on ‘The Bus of Dreams’ as I called it. If you look about on a bus you can, and I do, have a field day. Bus dwellers are fuckin’ odd and I’m proud to be one of them purely from an Anthropological perspective.

Of course some routes have better freaks than others. Some buses have so much ammo you could assassinate all their characters ten times over from multiple angles. I started doing it out of boredom but I kinda like it and imagine that we all do it to different levels… somewhere on a bus or in a pub or on a blog I’m having the piss ripped out of me so I don’t feel too bad about it.

Over the last few weeks I’ve been getting a particular bus for a particular reason….The ins and outs of that can wait for now but it’s not a fun journey and I don’t I don’t relish it in any way. I get this bus from the depot so I’m one of the first on the thing.

Getting a bus from its start end point is a joy in itself. You are wholly beholding to the prick behind the wheel. The cock with the timetable controls the doors and won’t let any fucker on the thing before his allotted departure time. They sit alone on the bus in darkness, farting and smoking while we the proletariat stand in the rain and cold begging to be welcomed aboard. And then the magic moment. In the gloom the shadowy figure lurches towards his driving cage, the bus shudders into life, the lights explode and the oaf at the wheel turns the destination board to somewhere else, somewhere wa are not and the doors open.

‘HOORAHHH!!!’

We cheer a weary cheer and all slope on apologetically so we don’t annoy our saviour. For a split second he is our God….

Bus drivers are a miserable, pot noodle eating rabble. They never smile, they rarely speak and they mostly have a carriage which suggest that the bus was built around them. Some of them attempt kookiness. Badges, kangol caps on backwards, leather waistcoats or worse the leather driving Jerkin, string back driving gloves and on one occasion I saw studded leather driving gloves. They seem to all wear shades of some description but I’m noticing a leaning towards Aviators like they are controlling some form of fighter plane. Perhaps in the piss stinking, Razzle Readers wives poster infested canteen they frequent they have names like ‘Ice man’ and ‘Goose’ and spout on about a ‘a difficult manoeuvre by the pedestrian area’ or a ‘a difficult disabled passenger’. These people are professional drivers…The men and women of oil and diesel….y’know…. morons, power crazy morons…

I’m at the stop and the plum is sitting alone on the bus. It’s cold out but I’m a happyish so continue listening to Mastadon which warms the bones.

The bus bursts into life and an entire herd of craggy, old women appear from nowhere like an outtake from ‘The Walking Dead. I’m a gentleman. I assess the scene and realise that none of them will physically make it up the stairs so I let them all on before me with a fake smile. I see them thank me but can’t hear it as I’m engrossed in ‘Blasteroid’ a particularly explosive piece from the Mastadons. Out of the corner of my eye I see one final old crone heading towards the stop at pace. She knows the Oaf at the wheel will scoot off if he can before she reaches the door threshold so I delay my entry out of pity for the old bat. She makes it but I ain’t letting her on before me. I’m on, facing out the goon behind the wheel. He stares forward not even a passing glance. Knob.

I’m up the stairs like a shot. Empty. I can sit anywhere this is rare. Years ago I got on a bus about half five in the morning as I needed to be in work early. I went up the stairs and was confronted with a cloying waft or some magnitude.  I looked about and saw the issue. I went down the stairs and had to actually speak to the driver.

‘Good morning Oaf… Are you aware that lying upstairs there appears to be a street person or as we used to say in the 70’s ‘a tramp’?’ says I.

‘So what mate?’ he spits.

‘Well he appears to have delivered about 4lbs of fruit and nut based shit into both his trousers, such as they are, and the entire back seat…. Are we continuing or shall I alight? ’

‘Yeah…. I know…. He did it about an hour ago. But I’m on a schedule’ he says and off we go at speed.

Great, He’s on a schedule so a bus of shit it is…. He didn’t give a monkeys.

This is what I’m talking about. An uncaring world where shitting on public transport is acceptable and a bloke is happy to transport the shitter about.

I take a seat and the late old bird freak appears at the top of the stairs.

She’s Rothmans craggy and appears to be covered in dust. The entire top deck is empty but she wants to sit behind me and cough….marvellous. I contemplate a polite ‘Will you fuck off please?’ but can’t actually be arsed so I suffer in Metallica based silence.

We move off from the stop and head towards a place where people will be. I’ve done this route a number of times like I said so I know the real freaks are imminent. I always sit nearside so I can see the true glory of the people at the bus stops. Nothing like a crutch or some crossed eyes to warm the cockles….. If we’re lucky a drunk builder will appear.

First up the stairs is a young girl carrying a Minions back pack. She doesn’t actually make it cleanly up the stairs but falls face first two stairs from the top. Behind her is the mother. Lank hair and lank clothes but she seems a decent type until she tells the little girl to stop ‘fucking about’….lovely. The kid isn’t shocked or phased so I’m assuming it’s a regular occurrence which she will pass on to her kids and so on for generations.

Next up we get the prize freak…. A weapons grade professional bellend. Bearded, mid 20’s, builders shape. He’s wearing white-white trainers and low slung jeans and is ready for a night out. The prime rib… the Big Kahuna…Le Grande Fromage of bus freakdom on this bus, what a time to be alive.

Like Lank Mum and offspring he takes the top front seats of the bus. The Art Student once told me that you have to take the front seats in order to pretend that you are driving the bus. He’s a grown man and he should know better but I humour him and pretend to be the co-pilot on our many trips together.

Beard freak takes the seat and starts to get his phone out. I’m two seats behind him on the angle and can almost decipher his text messages as they seem to consist solely of emoji’s and upper case expletives. He probably writes with a blunt crayon and so requires most answers in the modern day hieroglyphics of smiling faces, dog turds and hearts. He’s holding his phone (iPhone 6 naturally) at eye level to view it. No discretion, no crotch level viewing, no sheepish glance around prior to opening it…. It’s straight up so we, the innocent, can witness the contents.

His photo library is up first. Multiple crotch shots of some woman he has no doubt imprisoned in a basement. She looks like she’s literally enjoying herself and I find myself impressed that she’s actually managed to take the photos herself from that angle. If we are not viewing her naked ‘noo noo’ we are treated to the double breast push in an ‘I can make one big one’ way.

In my job I see the contents of a lot of other people’s phones and this practice of having a photo of a loved ones ‘special place’ is unbelievably common.   I don’t understand it. It’s like a 21^st century trophy wall. All different shapes and sizes, shaggy ones, groomed ones, angry ones, happy ones, empty, full you name it I’ve seen it, all stored on a memory card for immediate viewing. I’ll be honest with you, I’m not really interested in seeing one unless I’m in the room with it and am preparing to engage with it in a number of ways. Call me old fashioned but it’s not really my bag.

He continues to peruse and starts on the videos.

First up we have a video of some football hooligans knocking the shit out of each other. He likes this so views it again. Then he shuts it down and opens another. Cage fighting. Two overpaid ponces knocking the shit out of each other with some choking and rolling around…. Two views back to back. Lastly I get some more football numskulls knocking the shit out of each other. I’m spotting a theme here… Fighting and Fucking. Classic Bloke….Classic thick bloke, probably drinks Pils and likes Adele and Coldplay.

In between songs on the headphones I hear an anguished cry behind me. I look round and see a bloke with a homemade haircut and hubble strength specs. He has a long head and judging by the broadness of his forehead and the thickness of his neck he has been incarcerated at some point. He’s lightly rocking back and forth and is letting out the occasional scream and random laugh. It reminds me of Vinny Jones when he was interviewed after beating Liverpool in the cup final in the 80’s. He was so taken by the moment that he lost the ability to form words and simple said ‘OI!!’ to every question asked of him while drinking a pint of milk.

I didn’t see this bloke get on as I was busy watching skin and punch up films on some bearded freaks phone.

I look ahead and see a familiar place. I can walk home from the next stop so head to the stairs.

I get to the lower deck, usually a refuge for the old, infirm and twitchy but it’s banged out with shouty people all talking different stuff at the same time.

Do you remember that scene in ‘One flew over the Cuckoo’s nest’ where McMurphy hijacks the bus and takes all the nutjobs on an impromptu trip? Well I’m on the English version of that bus but as I don’t want to go on a fishing trip prior to some electrotherapy and a lobotomy I exit via the middle doors and leave the insanity behind me.

A twenty minute journey containing Porn, fighting, shouting, swearing and insanity…. The Bus of Dreams…

Next time I’ll tell the embarrassing tale of The Pencil Thief and other moments of my social downfall…

Another year ends. So, how did it go? How was it for you? The best? The Worst? Or merely the same as all the others? I’m describing this year as ‘Alright’. Nothing majorly eventful of taxing happened and so I’m left with an overpowering sense of ‘Meh’ to the whole 365 days.

I’ve had worse years, I’ve had a lot better. A beige year, bland and normal when it could and probably should have been so much more given that the Boy went to big school and I tore the roof off the house in a major refurb. A memorable year for these two reasons alone but generally a bit dull and forgettable …. Like most years in my 40’s. The ‘Dad years’.   The 30’s… now there was a decade. Totally out of control on a number of levels.

From a work perspective I, sadly, maintained my dislike of the job. This needs to stop as I’ve got a lot of years to work and I seem incapable of kicking open the exit door even when I’m successful in an interview.

The public sector is a teasing mistress. It gets you to pop the question but doesn’t tell you the full story till you get your foot in the bedroom. Then it’s a cab home or creeping out the flat in the night while they’re asleep. I took the cab as they couldn’t afford me as it were. I endlessly await a teary phone call of apology…. I’m not hopeful.

So it’s time to find the love for the current employer, the old girlfriend so to speak. In reality the love started to fade when my heroes and friends started retiring leaving me with either downtrodden employees who have been broken by the system or fat, lazy fuckers stealing a living. I lost an equine hero this year but hopefully I can still visit the stable on regular occasions to water The Horse.

What also didn’t help was that the year started with defeat where a bad man fled the room in tears having been let off the hook. Tears of Joy and a bullet dodged by him. Never trust the public, they are random and go weird occasionally. This result hung around like a bad smell for the remainder of the year sapping the enthusiasm of all directly involved in it. On the upside the work year has ended with us on the up and bad men on the rack. I feel slightly reborn and keen to nut back into it…. We’ll see… it may not last but I’ll try to rise above it the crud and relive the good old days.

It was also the year that the boy tore himself free from the shackles of kid football.

I have never been involved in something so pathetic in my life as Under 11’s football. Overburdened kids shouted at by parents who believe their kid is on the cusp of being the next Beckham and so not so much an outstanding sportsman but a money making machine for them.  These parents generally haven’t played the game but know all about it while shouting thing like ‘get stuck in’ and ‘man up’…. these people are Arseholes.

I never really wanted the boy to play regular football even though I did it for years. My low level experience of it was that it was overly pushy with the kids and I never wanted the boy to be under any pressure during what was supposed to be a fun thing but I allowed him to play about four years ago. It was all going mediocre until this year when the coach turned out to be a bullying prick.

It’s very difficult watching someone shout at your kids when you don’t. Every fragment of your being wants to walk across a football pitch and smash the shouter all over the shop but you can’t do that as you’ll be arrested or, even worse, embarrass your son. Instead I bit my lip and hoped that the boy would decide that he didn’t want to do it anymore. Towards the end of the season during which he had become more miserable and more poorly treated at the hands of a coach whose son was the favoured average player in the side, the boy decided enough was enough. He made his own mind up.

The cup final would be his last game and he made me very proud with a two goal, two assist 13 minute cameo which stuck it all up the arse of the twat running the side. At the end of the game when he was lauded by the other parents as the hero the coach said to me in front him:

‘It’s a shame he didn’t do that in the other 20 games’

This was typical of the stroker but instead of wiping him out I simply shook his hand, informed him that we were no longer available and left. The boy is a much happier chap now and so it has proved to be the correct decision. He can play football in the right environment at another stage in life. If it isn’t fun then why would you even consider doing it as a pastime?

At the beginning of the year I decided that I wanted to see more of my old mate and to a degree I achieved this. I tore myself away from mindless work drink ups and made the effort with those from the old days. I feel I successfully managed this but didn’t feel my efforts were always appreciated or supported. I spend a lot of time sorting shit out in the name of nostalgia but I reckon my part in that play is over….Exit, Stage Left….

On the upside I saw nearly all those mates of mine who live abroad.

The Bowman and the Queen of Gin visited and a great night in Highgate was had. Perhaps I should visited them this year rather than sit on my arse pretending I don’t fly….We’ll see. Big Jim visited at the exact moment the Arsenal beat United. Always great to see a Northern Monkey on the rack over a curry served by an East European. Team Ewing flew in and a lovely night was had in a back street North London pub where I was incorrectly identified by someone for the third time in his life. The love of the Ewings is something that needs to be recognised on a global level. The joint decision made by them to do what they did is beyond commendable… it’s a booker prize wrapped in an Oscar with a Nobel Peace prize flake on top. Love conquers all in the end and they are proof of that.

And Bun returned for the summer. Me old mucker arrived for shits and giggles in the sun. It made the summer for me. Top fun all round…. Our paths will all cross again with more frequency than this shit I’m sure…. I long for those moments as my Friends are my brothers and sisters rather than those I was chucked together with. Unusual but true….you don’t chose family but you choose your mates so the bonds are greater in my view.

The loft was built and is enjoyed immensely. This was my first foray into extensive building work and it was a lot less stress than I imagined it was going to be mostly due to the speed and quality of the builders rather than my control of it. I’ll continue the painting odyssey during my imminent month of no booze. No holiday was had due to the build and we’ve vowed that this will never happen again…. Too long without doing fuck all can kill you.

On the family front all is good in this house. The kids grow up and are moving forward and Jen is still the jewel in my life. Don’t tell her this, keep her on her toes. Bizarrely she takes no interest in these rants. She doesn’t read them so she’ll never know.

On other family fronts it’s time to close some doors for good. Too much misery and bile from some and I’m not a patient man so it’s time to chuck away the key and put the onus on those with the issue to rectify the situation or get the fuck out. I’ve no time for time wasters, I’m too old.

Like I said at the beginning I’ve had better years but I’m still lucky. I don’t struggle and am aware that my whinging is ludicrous given the lives of others but I still love a moan like the rest of us. I turn my back on this year and merely remember a boy growing up and a box on the top of my house….little more than that.

Thank you for your support in reading my crap. I do it for fun, to stimulate my brain and so the kids can read it in the years to come and see that their Dad wasn’t just a miserable, pissed up sod in his youth.  If it makes you laugh then great as life is about laughing and fun. If it isn’t then you are doing it wrong.   Take the tragedy that comes with it, take it and push forward, find the joy and remember the good times and not the way things may have ended… It’s the ‘Lemmy method’ without the warts and leather.

Goodbye 2015….. I’ll remember you like that Van Halen album sung by the bloke from Extreme that makes even this diehard shudder in his boots.

Onwards to better times….. enjoy your night…. I’m having a curry and a bottle of Rioja before I join an alcohol free bubble for a month…

More Crud in the new year…

Picture the scene…. A frosty Christmas morning, a 14 year old wakes up oddly excited. He looks to the end of his bed to see a small pile of perfectly wrapped gifts. He springs out, unusually athletically and bounces towards the presents. Without opening a single gift the teenager runs to his older Brother to spread the good news….

“He’s been Dan!!….He’s been!!….Father Christmas has been!!!”

My brother was a poor riser and so I was not unduly concerned by the initial silence prior to being verbally attacked.

“…what the fuck is wrong with you?….you’re 14 not 5… now piss off you prick…”

Welcome to Christmas.

I shouldn’t have been too shocked by his outburst as he had generally stopped laughing and smiling at some point in the previous four years and as far as I’m aware has continued this tradition for the last thirty three but was this really necessary on the greatest of all days?…. That’s right…the Greatest of all days, during the greatest of all times of the year….. No….No it wasn’t…

Fear not dear reader, I would have my vengeance in the shape of a ‘Shakin’ Stevens’ album which he was due to imminently open…. Cock…

Christmas is it for me. You can stick my birthday up your arse….I don’t care. Easter? Ha!…Shite… religious undertone… fuck it. New Year’s Eve?….don’t get me started… fake hugs in packed boozers with non-professional drinkers you neither know nor like…

‘Christmas’

Look at the word… marvellous. Not ‘Xmas’… ‘Xmas’ is for the filth of the planet, it’s for those scared of Jeebus and for those who don’t want to offend. Say ‘Seasons Greetings’ if you wish but never ‘Xmas’…

Let’s start at the beginning.

My childhood was a frantic affair but those stories will be a different blog. That will be the last blog, the last blog ever. My childhood Christmases’ were outstanding and filled only with joy and happiness. No expense was spared, everyone smiled at some point and the fun factor was high. The tree, the coloured lights, the tinsel and the smell of tinsel, the inflatable father Christmas, the silver goblets, the food, the Astispumanti, the crates of Holsten Pils and the gifts.

There was no red and green Victorian Christmas poncitude that I now love, oh no, it was tack, it was flammable and I loved it. I still find myself sniffing tinsel to this day and I am transported back to that time.

I was never left wanting at Christmas. I got everything I wanted, we all did, whether my parents had the wedge or not. Snooker tables, Action Man, Sony Walkmans, Hot Wheels, Matchbox Le Mans racing set (which I used to hide porn playing cards in…unfortunately my Mum took it back to the shop without telling me and the cards were found by the assistant in the presence of said mother). I remember it all and appreciate every small fragment of it. Glorious times…The best of times…Always.

Of course at 14 I realised Father Christmas (never Santa Claus) wasn’t real but when I woke up that morning, the morning of the tirade of many Danny delivered tirades, I still wanted to believe it.

I was caught up in the moment, I knew the score but I didn’t really want to know that score as knowing the score was the first turning point in your relationship with Christmas. The Father Christmas myth is the magic and anyone killing that for their kids in the name of ‘reality’ needs to take a hard look at themselves in my view. If you want kids to have reality then start explaining that their soft toys aren’t real, running with your hands outstretched doesn’t make you an airplane, the News is the only TV programme they require and the old man at number 54 needs to be avoided. See? Reality isn’t always necessary…

My parents were the Christmas heroes. They delivered the goods on every level and created the template for my Christmas future.

My Mum was the driving force. All fun, all the time, particularly at Christmas.

A couple of examples of ‘the crazy’ include when I once came home to find her lying on the stairs on her back pointing downwards, arms splayed, eyes rolling, and tongue lolling. I was with Bunny, our man in Hong Kong, at the time and like true professionals we simply stepped over her and continued up the stairs.

“I could have been dead” she said from her prone position.

“Well you ain’t are you…?” I replied.

We moved up the stairs, she remained holding the position like David Gower delivering a classic cover drive.

Another time when I was alone in my parents’ house I ventured downstairs in nothing but my pants for a glass of water and was confronted by her springing out from behind a door with a bag on her head with the eyes and mouth cut out screaming. I screamed like a girl. You’re always vulnerable in your pants so it was potentially an unfair fight. My scream fuelled her laughter to fever pitch…. Mental…like a horror film, the stuff of nightmares.

My Dad was and remains a big character. Anyone who is happy to tell someone to aggressively ‘Shut Up’ in the lobby of a church at midnight mass deserves some kind of award. He is fiercely brutal when faced with what he decreed to be stupidity or God forbid ‘disrespect’. He loves Christmas and made it great till I left home. He taught me how to lie under the tree looking up through the lights, tinsel and baubles where I would imagine I lived in it like a London based Chip from Chip ‘n’ Dale. My kids do this now, they love it.

He also once gave me and my mates an ice cold crate of Schlitz beer prior to us departing for our first Christmas out on the lash. I still remember the moment and the taste and occasionally I’m transported back to that time when I have cold lager at Christmas…. A great memory… He was a generous bloke when it came to fun..

He was great with us as kids but not so as teenagers and adults so unfortunately all bridges appear to be ash due to unequalled stubbornness on all fronts by all parties.

…Anyway all that shit can wait for another time….

In my mid to late teens Christmas became a hunt for female companionship. It was essential to get hold of someone to share the Christmas experience with.

No one wanted to be the loner, the ‘Tom McCarthy’, the ‘too cool’ yoot who would turn up late to all the parties as he’d been ‘hanging around’ somewhere else on his own. He hadn’t, but that was all he had. He missed great laughs in order to create a mysterious persona enabling him to drift in late doors. It wasn’t cool, he looked like a cab driver and he missed out on the fun.

In the late teens we were in the trenches. We were existing in dark, damp football clubs making pricks of ourselves for a Christmas snog or the chance of a Christmas snog. We were fearlessly walking into pubs in the hope that that specific barman, that fucker in the Torrington wouldn’t ask for ID and then chuck you out in front of the ladies thus scuppering any chance you had of interaction whilst holding a manly pint. Women never had this problem as they we always welcome and encouraged into pubs by slimy, too old barmen.

In order to properly entice women, ‘Argos’ was visited and high end, ‘Elizabeth Duke’ yellow metal jewellery was purchased usually in the shape of a wishbone or a Teddy bear. These were the love bullets waiting to be delivered at Sixth form Girl School common room parties where the teacher on the door was bribed with Kestrel Super to allow entry into the inner sanctum. Good times with top women, they were and remain Legendary….

All those girls played their part in the good stuff at Christmas. They were responsible for the buzz of receiving the card from any one of them. What followed was hours of forensic examination where you would stare at the simple greeting within, where you desperately try to read something, anything into the one kiss at the bottom. Was it a sign? A trigger? A nod and a wink? Was it a mistake? What was it? Is it Pity? The written version of a hair ruffle followed by a tilt of the head and an ‘Awwww’, it was as sexual as a hairy cheeked kiss from a piss smelling old woman….Pathetic. I was Timid… I’m no longer timid. ‘Say it, don’t think it’ is my motto as it’s better to get an answer, good or bad than to wonder what it might have been….No regrets now, plenty at the time.

So, Christmas as a child and then a youth was everything you remember. Festive, cosy, warm and hilarious….and then you leave home and move in with a girl.

Adulthood. The despair of Adulthood.

In pre parent adulthood you spend most of your Christmas time on the lash in tinsel heavy pubs shouting over Slade, The Pogues and Wizzard until midnight when all hell breaks loose and you engage in mass hugs with strangers.  This was the time of great Christmas laughs…

I used to run a football club bar. It was always out of control. If we weren’t fighting the punters we were dragging them through windows where they had got stuck trying to gain entry after being chucked out.

The most out of control moment involved a barman of mine, a half Irish, half Maltese pretty boy punching the birthday boy in the face over the bar after he had clicked his fingers at him. As the punch was delivered I looked at the other barman and we all just closed our eyes in resignation.

This was a tad awkward but as we were in charge we rallied, blamed the recipient of the blow for antagonising the deliverer and threw him out temporarily from his own do. We allowed him back in for the sake of the till however at the end Franco decided he wanted another crack at him and walked toward him with the now legendary line of:

‘Ho! Ho! Ho!…the rain is coming down and here comes trouble’

The bloke didn’t know whether to run or laugh… he ran…we laughed.

On one occasion I made the mistake of allowing a booking in Christmas week for the ‘Young Rotarians’, a bland bunch of young conservative types who needed a good hiding. They wanted the place for 40-50 people so it was a small gig, trouble was I could find no one to help me run it. As ever, up stepped Bunny. We had drank enough that Christmas and so both fancied an easy night…

We got there early for no apparent reason and as there was little else to do we started drinking. This was fatal as by the time they started arriving we were beyond ‘nicely alight’ and were heading into ‘well oiled’ country. Christmas was about to hit the Nigel and Clarissa’s right in the face.

The trigger for the mess we were in was a trophy I found kicking about behind the bar. The trophy in question had been won by Bunny and I a few years previously. We decided that this would be our drinking vessel for the night and so we donned tinsel headbands and got involved. It was the definitive ‘cup of a carpenter’ and we had, indeed, chosen ‘wisely’. We named it ‘The Cup that Cheers’ and we filled it with a cocktail of Kronenborg and a run through the top shelf and whenever we drank from it you would have to shout ‘The Cup that cheers….Cheers!!’ while raising it in the direction of the non-drinker. As you’d imagine this was a great idea when only two of you were in the club but not so great when you have 40 oddbods in cardigans and pristine side partings drinking lemonade staring at you.

Anyway, we made it through the night even after the ‘Why the fuck aren’t you drinking you ponce… it’s Christmas’ remark to one particularly irritating stroker drinking his fifth tonic water… he didn’t see the funny side but we were having a good time so who cares eh?

Another Christmas barman was ‘The Rash’. A very funny man.

We worked another Christmas do with a ginger barmaid surprisingly called ‘Ginga’ who loved a laugh. At the end of the event we stayed on a played pool and drank as a wind down.

I’m quite good at pool as I’m sure two polis in Manchester will testify so I’m winning easily against The Rash. I’m lining up the final shot for victory and I look up from the cue to the pocket and see a blockage, a blockage in the form of a large pair of testicles attached to The Rash.

I looked up and he was standing there doey eyed, looking between me and his hairy brains saying ‘Helllooo’…. What do you do? Well, you smash the ball as hard as possible. I never saw the Rash’s bollocks again and that saddens me greatly.

Most Christmas nights out during this period where like some ex-girlfriends, great at the time yet forgettable now. Nothing of real note happened other than drinking, again like some ex-girlfriends. Some nights still stick in the memory though.

One Christmas Eve I found myself in a Wetherspoons Pub. This normally goes against every principle in my drinking head. Terrible pubs selling low level beer to the toothless, thick and urine soaked. I once saw a work colleague get refused service in a Wetherspoons due to being in a state of advanced refreshment. This is the drinking equivalent of climbing Everest carrying a rhino…. It shouldn’t be possible.

So I’m sitting in a Wetherspoons with a group of mates in couples. It’s getting towards midnight and so we are ready for the struggle cuddle with assorted strangers in our festivity arc. I’m in the company of my missus at the time, The Bowman and his wife The Queen of Gin, Googan with possibly Miss Curtis, the lounge lizard Breen with his, at the time, hostage and some others who I’ve taken the time to forget. The clock strikes midnight and we drunkenly celebrate. Happy days…

It was at 0004 hours that the problem started when a surly little fucker started hanging around our table. Initially he was merely watching but then it became evident that he was some sort of ‘staff’ twat. Then he got involved and started aggressively picking up empty glasses that were lying about…

….and then it happened….

For some reason this bloke was unaware of two things. Firstly, taking a Gin ‘n’ Tonic from the hand of the Queen of Gin isn’t going to end well…. If she don’t get you then The Bowman certainly will. I can still see her ‘what the fuck are you doing?’ incredulous smile as it was whisked away by the bravest idiot on the planet.

Secondly it’s close to fatal if you aim a punch at a man capable of firing a longbow unless you too are a longbow man. He wasn’t. His only association with anything remotely archer like was activating a Schnapps optic.

In the inevitable melee that followed I was punched in the face resulting in a Christmas black eye and a thick barman was given the ‘bad news’ by The Bowman before being arrested for his own safety…. Apparently he was in the middle of a nervous breakdown and so had lost his mind which was clear from his attempt to wrestle some juniper from the hands of the Gin Queen.

Fancy dress played its part on Christmas Eve on three occasions however only the first time was fun.

On the second occasion I found myself dressed in full Musketeer garb sitting in the palatial Highgate abode of some kind of posh Dublin born, city boy type while The Rash seemed to be oiling him up for potential business. I was not impressed as I was supposed to be on a pub crawl in the rain which was infinitely my appealing.

The third time was really a bridge too far as we walked around Crouch End in full Lederhosen… dull, dull, dull…

As usual the first time was the most memorable. Nuns. Four Nuns and a Priest to be precise.

The plan was to do a pub crawl of Highgate after going bowling in the afternoon. At the bowling the nuns sat obediently while Father Googan arranged the shoes.

The rules were that we could only drink Guinness (black and white), religious based alcohol (Bishops Finger, Abbots, white wine), travel by bus everywhere and we had to enter MacDonald and ask for ‘Fishes and loaves’. It was as very funny night with the best mates and will never be forgotten. It’s amazing how good you look in a wimple if you have had a shave… you become sexless just like a nun….I was liberated…free…

I recently read Nick ‘Shaun of the Dead’ Frost’s biography and there’s a part where he describes snogging a girl on a bus on Christmas Eve 1999 in Finchley while being watched by a man dressed as a nun…. That could only have been one of us.

We ended the night returning to a local pub where I stumbled into Mildred out on her first Christmas since I left her. She was in the company of the half of what I once called mates who believed that I had treated her badly… Fuck them…. My memory is long and nasty and in my head they will remain… rotting.

Mildred was teary. It could have been me turning up on the plot but equally it could have been that the ice had melted in her drink, or that the lights were too bright so it was hard to be completely sure. I didn’t care. She had ruined my last Christmas and I was pleased that she was upset…. Nasty I know but t’was the way it was.

And then I changed jobs and joined an organisation of such festive debauchery that even I was quite shocked.

My first interaction with this organisation was being invited to their Christmas party prior to joining. I was told to attend the O’Neills in Soho where they would be.

I had never seen or met any of them and my only instruction was to be there at 1300 hours. I got there at 1230. They didn’t get there till 1500. I was so nervous that I had consumed 6 pints of Stella for Dutch courage…. I was mangled. I pulled myself together and managed to drink and eat my way through the lunch before leaving via a soho sex shop where I purchased some porn DVD’s.

I got home and Jen look me up and down in disgust and said:

‘So…It’s going to be like this is it?’

…Yes….Yes it was….

Back in the day, my job effectively closed down from 1^st December till the New Year. Unbelievable levels of festive hedonism, it was a festive dream come true. I’d been to Christmas parties before in my previous employment and on occasions things went out of control. The smarties, the Vodka and the liquidizer in the office spring to mind but those were one-off moments. They were organised events not random out of control frantic drinking because the pub had tinsel or it was the 1^st of December or ‘Christmas – Day one’.

The drinking was relentless. You could easily find an event from 10^th December onwards every night if you fancied it. If there wasn’t an event then one was created by me and my Chief conspirator and friend for life The Horse. It was easy.

We were once in a pub in Camden for a couple when the faintest of snow storms started. We ignored it and it got heavier. We kept looking at the window at the snow, then we looked at the tinsel, sniffed the tinsel, looked at the Guinness and continued drinking.

This went on for hours and the snow increased. London ground to a halt due to rapid snowfall but we couldn’t leave because it wasn’t deemed festive enough until ‘Fairytail of New York’ could be heard in the pub while you were holding a Guinness. Those were the rules. Horse lived in Essex, The Yorkshireman lived out West and I lived 7 miles away.   We were snowed in due to Christmas Drinking Rules. I ended up walking home.

Due to the snow, half way I found myself exhausted and had to stop off in a pub for a rest. I opened the door in a blizzard like Captain Oates had he made it back to the tent. In the pub I found single men sitting alone drinking. These idiots had similar rules and were also stranded by their own festivity….they all smiled. We all knew the score.

When you have kids it all comes flooding back and you can relive all the great Christmas stuff you were forced to put on hold on the name of trying to be aloof about Christmas due to the pressure of the mid to late 20’s.

You now have the partner who can tolerate you and your ways and you have the children. You can be what you want to be and revert to a childlike state of excitement at the prospect of the tree, Father Christmas and the Magic. I see it as my job to instil all this crud into my kids so they can pass on the unrivalled joy of it all.

Personally I only want a good time at Christmas, I don’t want gifts because if I wanted it I have probably already bought it…. I’m 46 years old. Anyone telling me it’s too commercial or is a religious event can go fuck themselves as I’m not interested. Similarly anyone using the outstandingly annoying expression of ‘I don’t DO Christmas’ can also jump on the ‘Get Fucked’ bus. Get with it, get on it or get in the Bus…

To me Christmas is about Joy, children, fun, laughing and friends. Mostly laughing. Of course we remember those who have gone but it should be we Joy of the people and nothing else. Remember the Person not the End. The smiles, the laughing, the stuipidness, the warmth…..The good.

I attempt to see everyone I love at Christmas. It’s my thing. I start planning the diary in October and I scatter the events as much as possible. I rarely don’t turn up and will always explain why I’m not coming if I can’t. I don’t get this back though and am becoming more disappointed with turnouts as the years go on. I need to ignore this and focus on the proper people, the ones that match my festive desire. ‘Never judge anyone by your own standards’ my polis mentor said to me once and as he was never wrong I’ll endeavour to take that on board in the future.

And so we stand on the cusp of another Christmas Eve, the best night of the year. The kids will be frantic so I need all my skills to exhaust them. The magic will be at its peak in this house please ensure that it is in yours.

You’ll be relieved to hear that I barely drink over Christmas…. Wine isn’t drinking is it? Jeebus loved so it must be ok however raise you glass to Christmas and sniff the tinsel.

Merry Christmas to you all….see you on the other side.

Go. Mental. x

It’s been a very odd few weeks since my last effort. All kinds of madness thrust in my face like an unwanted todger in the night.  Politics, Paranoia, tragedy and fire….lots and lots of fire…..

Once again I started writing a different blog, one where I dismantled Facebook.  But as usual I bored myself and found a different trigger.  I found Paganism.

However I’ll come to that later.  Firstly I’ll briefly address the original idea for this month’s rant.

I am a prolific Facebook user.  I make no excuse for this as I find the whole medium hilarious and instant.  It shouldn’t require thought and takes seconds to post something.  I rarely, if ever, sit at a computer to post.  I do it on the hoof as it were, when I’m out and about doing stuff or I spot something worth ripping the piss out of.  I used to get lots of ‘you’re always on it’ shite where my reply would be ‘if you know that then you must be too’.  So what if I’m always on it?  It’s easy and a laugh… live with it.

In 2008 I started my page.  I was late to the party and was admittedly sceptical about the social media thing but as I like to embrace technology I decided to give it a go.  I saw it as good way of keeping in communication with some people that I wouldn’t normally see or hear from.

You could argue that if you don’t see or hear from someone on a regular basis then fuck them, you don’t need them.   I would usually subscribe to this mind-set as I don’t think like a rational, normal person.  I’m a reactionary who springs to snap judgements before having a think and then completely changing my mind.  Don’t be me…..be normal.  With Facebook I decided to be normal….. To begin with.

I checked back through my Facebook to see what my first post was.  It was outstanding:

“…is suffering from back pain…”

Riverting stuff eh?  A nothing post….hopeless.  Who cares? What would you say in response?  I remember posting this and thinking that I didn’t even care. A poor start.

It was clear I needed a ‘thing’, a reason to post something rather than a random statement of the moment, so I made a conscious decision to make my shit as funny and as joyful as the medium, although useful was essentially trivial.

On a brief initial scan at the time after acquiring a few friends I noticed a recurring theme.

Cat pictures.

The site was packed with cute cat pictures.  It was reminiscent of the late 80’s where the walls of University bedrooms were adorned with that poxy poster of the musclebound model, bare-chested, looking into the face of a new born baby or the picture of James Dean moodily walking down the boulevard of blah, blah, blah, or the ‘Betty Blue’ poster, a film of such low rent that it was merely made to separate socks from there 17 year old owners within the first seven minutes.  Subtitles added to the mystery but essentially it was Euro trash discussed intensely over warm cider by floppy haired film student cocks needing a good shoeing.

These images were meant to inspire but all they did was make you look like a moody ponce trapped in your own intensity.  Cat pictures could poke it.

The first clash I had with someone was when I ended up embroiled in a conversation about Facebook suggesting things you might like.  You didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to work out that this function is driven by the info you give it but no matter…. He ain’t no rocket scientist.

The complainant was whinging on about how it was an infringement of his civil liberties that anyone should dare suggest what he liked or disliked.  I was hesitant in my response, which is unusual for me, but I couldn’t hold back.

I pointed out that the whole Zuckerberg platform was free and so it didn’t surprise me that based on things you actively say you like they would suggest stuff that could help their advertisers.  I also pointed out to the whining prick that if he didn’t accept the policy he could do three things:

1. Stop using Facebook
2. Stop liking stuff on Facebook
3. Get out of my fucking life

This went down badly and so I was drawn into arguing with the knob about the meaning of ‘free’.

To me, If you are handed a free vanilla Ice Cream you don’t complain that it isn’t strawberry… you either accept the freebie and its vanilla fantabulousness or you reject it and go ice cream free.  You have the ultimate sanction….You can decide not to engage with it.

This was the point when I thought that the whole platform must be littered with nut jobs from all parts of the bonkers spectrum.

There’s the needy who post lines like:

• “…Oh God!… not again…”
• “..I can’t believe he/she did that..”
• “.. I’m not having that..”

These are ‘No point’ posts which crave interaction, they need a response mainly along the lines of ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

I had (notice past tense) a ‘friend’ who posted this stuff regular.  I used to respond like I knew what she was talking about hoping that she would correct me.  No one knew what she was talking about but she was incapable of starting or sustaining a conversation without there being some form of personal trauma.  In the end no one replied.  If you want a reply to your posts try using this thing:

‘?’

The Question Mark. It works on all levels otherwise it’s just a statement…an up your own arse statement craving attention.

The flipside of the needy are the obsessed.  These are the people who think that everything you post is about them or something they did.  My posts are about everything and nothing, everybody and nobody.  If I’m talking about you you’ll know…. I’ll name you directly as I love an argument..

Then there are the part time political activists with the deeply earnest posts who have been particularly prolific this past six weeks mainly due to the immigration tragedy and the rise of some bloke trapped in a time warp from 1975.

This blog isn’t my political platform so I won’t bang on about my views and so I’d like to think that others would do the same on Facebook.  Unfortunately I’ve been subjected to dead toddler pictures, downtrodden migrant appeals, Rioters being battered by the Police and the like whether I want to see them or not.  I was called a ‘cunt’ and a ‘Tory’ simply for not agreeing with a particular point of view.  That’s fine, I’ve been called a Cunt before and I’m certain it’ll happen again but there seems to be a lack of understanding in the concept of point and counterpoint.

The other thing with the Activist is that generally on Facebook you are posting to your friends and so your wish to push the view to a wider audience collapses at stage one.  Generally we associate with like-minded people so shoving your view down their throat on an hourly basis has little effect.  I know what you like and dislike that’s why we are friends and this goes for all the others on your page.  Go global if you must but not local as it’s pointless.

It’s not all bad.  Facebook is a marvellous tool for humorous interaction with people you don’t get to see on a regular basis.  Without it I would have no communication with friends and relatives all over the world as I’m a lazy bastard who doesn’t pick up a phone.   I’ve met new friends and rekindled relationships with old mates.  I like it…It does its job and if you keep it low level it can be a great thing unfortunately there are too many Warriors of the Intergoogles looking to reinvent themselves as modern day heroes.  Luckily I realise that I’m not a hero…I’m just a bored twat spouting nothingness.

On a lighter note….Paganism and the Fires of Hell.

Over the years I’ve spent a lot of time in Hastings, not through choice but not due to abduction either.  Obligation has taken me to this seaside hamlet of few sights, few teeth and fewer thumbs.  The in-laws lived there and so I was taken there on many occasions to visit.

I’m not big on seaside towns.  It’s the transient nature of the average punter mincing around them rather than a general irrational hate.  They always feel temporary and fake to me and my personality and nature insists that I imagine it in a bleak winter landscape rather than at its peak in a tepid English summer.

My gauge of a place is whether I would want to live there and I’ve always thought I couldn’t live in Hastings.  What would I do during the winter when I’m watching my car being eaten away in the sea air?  Plan the annual external house painting?  Take a walk down the ‘Old Town’ (they all have an ‘Old Town’), to see worn out coffee shops and shops selling shell encrusted clocks that you don’t need or even like?  Play tuppence drop to win something shite? Or just drink my loaf off in a worn out boozer frequented by salty sea dogs with a sign that says ‘Bikers welcome’?

If I ever live by an expanse of water it will be hot all year round and I’ll be eating sardines cooked on the beach not slurping a pint of prawns under an umbrella next to the crazy golf.

All this being said I agreed to return for a night out with Jen, the kids, Jen’s sister and brother-in-law who are always great company and good fun. It was sold to me as a beach party with fireworks… It wasn’t quite like that.

I’ve always enjoyed the initial stages of journey down to Hastings.  I can’t explain why it might just be the fact that I’m on the road.  The problem really kicks in when I see that sign that says ‘Welcome to Hastings – Birthplace of Television’.  This sign gets up my nose as it means we have arrived in Hastings.  It’s at that point that I feel the blood pressure rising and the tetchiness kick in.

We arrive at the accommodation.  My initial reaction is a well-trodden road for Jen.  I slag it off without actually entering the premises. My default position is one of misery and woe when leaving my house to sleep elsewhere as any bed that isn’t mine tends to break my back.  The guest house we are staying proves to be excellent value with a brasserie attached including a bar with Guinness.  She knows me so well…. As long as Guinness is available I’ll suffer anything.

Prior to leaving I research the event we are attending.  It’s the Hastings Bonfire Society’s annual event where they parade through the streets before igniting a huge pyre on the beach. Essentially this sounds dull however it’s free and involves fire so I’m in.

After a brief stay in the room I decide to go sit in the bar as there’s only so long I can sit and wait for Jen and the kids to get ready.  I head to the brassiere bar and order a G from a very young barmaid.  I’ve had better…. The Guinness not the barmaid.

I sit in the window, alone like an imprisoned orangutan.  I don’t go to bars alone so this is a rarity and I try to savour the moment or solitude but in walks a large group of locals spanning various age ranges.

Locals.  I hate Locals. I can tell they are locals by the limps, small thumbs, sloping shoulders, small heads and boss eyes.  They seem excited, almost frantic.  I can only assume it’s because the magic of fire is imminent.  They all talk at the same time about fuck all and I notice they view me suspiciously.  One of them has that look that can only be described as ‘the finger through the toilet paper’…. They are wary of the lone stranger… I’m winning.  My mind wanders and I realise that I could run this fucking town.  I was born for this moment, I can envisage a future where I’m leading the toothless masses of Hastings in revolt against the rest of society… I am Caesar from ‘Dawn of the Planet of the Apes’… A simian forehead and just about enough intelligence to lead an army of the stupid… I AM THEIR GOD!!

…Anyway more of my rise to power in another blog… onwards…

I’m in the bar with the freaks.  They are talking about the fire ceremony and they have started to drool and chatter.  There’s also random bursts of too loud, inappropriate laughter.  All I can decipher are random mumblings with the occasional clear use of the words “fire” and “burn” said slightly too loudly and quickly… I shift uncomfortably and am pleased when the brother in law appears as he’s an ex-soldier and will be handy should we have to burst free from the bar in some kind of normal person jail break.

Shortly after we are joined by our families and we retire to the restaurant to eat. Saved by women and children.

I’m surprised by the menu.  Lamb fillet and Dauphinoise potatoes rings my bell and as it’s the greatest of all potato dishes I choose instantly.  This is odd.  Hastings has always oozed gastronomic wasteland for me.  Random ‘meet’ crammed into stale bread held together by the cheapest of napkins so I’m thrown by this classy effort.

I once went to breakfast with Jen in Hastings where she ordered ‘Ham and eggs’.  Not sure you can fuck that up but she received two slices of wafer thin plastic ham, a stale finger roll and a hard-boiled egg (unpeeled) rolling on the plate.

I still remember her face and my laughter which was only cut short by the arrival of my breakfast which when ordered sounded like ‘double egg on toast, bacon and mushrooms’ but when received was ‘egg, bacon, sausage, tomatoes and beans’.  When I queried the plate before me I was informed by the waitress that the chef can only cook what is listed on the menu at which point I pointed to Jen’s plate.  Apparently Jen’s effort was him ‘giving it a go’… outstanding.  By the way I never eat sausages in cafes.  If I want to chow down on a low quality pigs cock I’ll join the current government…eh?  Like that?  Topical…

Seaside food is usually shite.  Whilst working in Brighton with some of the greatest people I’ve ever met I was provided with a battered cod fillet impaled on a stick… bit like a fish lolly.  All. Wrong.

Because the food was good I was filled with optimism when I strode forth towards the ‘Pyre’ erected on the beach.

The streets were busy with freaks in costumes ready for the parade.  Lots of pirates and death makeup like a low level Mexican Day of the Dead parade without the heat, sun, proper costumes, choreography and beautifully tanned people.  This is that festival for the shockingly pale, ham-fisted, puffer jacket brigade.

We reach the sea front and it’s mobbed.  It’s like a prison has let everyone out for the night…. A prison, a borstal and a home for battered wives…doors thrown open and the ghost of Ron Pickering has shouted ‘Away you Go!!’. This is the Hastings I remember.  The Walking Dead manifest into reality.  Excluding those I am related to I’ve counted 58 teeth amongst those in attendance and it’s clear that the local tattooist is a multi-millionaire from neck tatts and kids names in gothic font on forearms.

….I’m in the nitty gritty here… it’s a tinder box of luke warm excitement and I’m with the people of the soil… the common man….Cameron’s Britain…

We smooch our way to the front of the railings within sight of the massive pyre of pallets and random wood.  To the front of the tower is a giant anarchist Guy Fawkes mask.  I’ve inadvertently entered an anti-capitalist rally.  This could ruin me.  I couldn’t be more capitalist.  Earlier I was sitting in the accommodation wishing I had brought the Bose mini dock Bluetooth speaker as the quality of the radio in the room was appallingly poor… I want all the stuff and I want it now.  Luckily these Jubs ain’t political they just like burning stuff and swearing loudly at their kids.

The brother-in-law informs me of the timescale and it appears that we has an hour to kill while the parade of torches winds its way through the Old Town and back to the sea front.  I was aware this would happen so I’m cool with it.

I survey the scene.  What strange lunacy is this?

Now I’m not sure how big the Hastings branch of Sports Direct is but I can only assume it is like the 02 arena with tills and cheap umbrellas.  Everywhere I look I see ‘Lonsdale’ and ‘Karrimor’ and ill-fitting, highly flammable leisure suits.  This seems like a collective cry for help given the imminent inferno.  I have never seen so much cheap leisure clothing packed into confined area in my life.  It’s like the crowd at an Iron Maiden gig in Poland in 1987.  It’s actually quite a feat of logistics given the A roads down to Hastings that Sports Direct are capable of delivering this amount of tat to the residents on a regular basis.

The next thing I notice is the smoking.  I hate smoking.  I’ve never smoked but have had to live with it for years.  Every girl I ever had the pleasure of ‘entertaining’ smoked.  It was deemed ‘cool’ by women of my vintage back in the day so if you wanted to be involved you had to accept it or spend the nights weeping into a pillow in a lonely bedroom with the ‘Grattans’ catalogue lingerie section.  Just for the record ladies, we don’t like it, it tastes bad…. But we get on with it….for you because we are professionals and need the companionship for the sake of our sight.

The amount of smoking is noticeable…all ages….puffing.  There’s a couple next to me in their 40’s who are vaping.  They are heavily vaping in between some gratuitous snogging.  I’m subjected to entwined tongues and I haven’t even typed anything into Google although this search would read ‘Fugly couple sicken thick crowd’.

They stop vaping and eating each other and engage in some top notch swearing during which they start smoking.  That’s right, the vaping has stopped but the real smoking has started meaning that they can maintain a constant state of nicotine refreshment.

I turn away and look into the distance and see a red glow.  It reminds me of that scene in ‘The Two Towers’ when the Orc army are approaching Helms Deep to slaughter everyone.  Problem is I’m stuck in the middle or more Orcs and see no heroes able to assist me (Aragorn) or the brother in law (Legolas).  It’s an Orcfest and I have no weaponry other than complete contempt.

‘They are coming!!”

…the cry rings out from what I assumed was a bearded bloke to my left… Turns out it was a woman in need of a shave in a ‘Tap out’ sweatshirt.  Everyone hustles forward to greet the torch bearers who are bedecked in sea based fancy dress.  Chillingly they are also dragging a 12 foot papier-mâché model of some generic seafarer that they intend to reduce to ashes.

After ten minutes of various drum banging and flame gathering the horde surround the Pyre… Ignition is but a moment away.  In a bizarre twist I’ve gone all caveman and crave an out of control fire… the mob has taken control of me and I have become one of them.

Generally I’m poor with fire. I can’t control it.  I had lots of bonfires out of control through poor planning and seeing me light fireworks is comedy gold… Torch in mouth, taper gingerly wobbling towards the fuse whilst carrying a watering can is the norm followed by a frantic run to safety as if I’m escaping the blast zone.  When the boy was a baby I experimented with mood lighting by placing four tea lights in a ceramic vase behind a microwave in order to create some kind of ponce inspired ambience.  The effect was outstanding but when I left the room I forgot to extinguish the candles and 10 minutes later was fighting a blaze from kitchen worktop to ceiling as they overheated in the confined vase, melded into one giant candle and exploded.  Jen wasn’t happy and so now like a three year old I’m not allowed matches in case I threaten the safety of the tribe.

The tension is mounting as the horde close in….who gets the honour of chucking the first torch? Which local dignitary puts fire to wood?  Surely the manager of Sports Direct will be the one given his services to textiles and moulded soles throughout the town will be in the frame or perhaps the local tobacconist who has manged to bring joy to all ages and all medical facilities in the area for a number of years.  Neither of these two titans of local industry get the nod and so some random nobody shoots his bolt and chucks his torch straight into the heart of the pyre. After a brief cheers of madness hundreds of other torches are chucked on.

I’m not too sure what was in the middle but the stack has gone up in seconds like a roman candle and the heat is tremendous from my vantage point about 100 yards away.  The whole thing is exhilarating and I find myself scanning the crowd for the overly nourished in order to add fuel to this fire of all fires.  Surely one of these loonies is willing to sacrifice themselves to fuel the lust for flames?

After five minutes of watching the inferno it’s clear that it’s getting slightly out of control with the top of it licking up a good sixty feet into the air like a sun flare.  If the wind changes direction I’m pretty sure that the entire area could be engulfed in flame.

The assembled herd are taken with the fire frenzy and shouts of ‘BURN!! BURN!!’ are heard all around.  Out of the corner of my eye I notice the local fire engine silently move towards the pyre as if the brains on hose #1 has realised that he could get the key to the city for stopping a disaster…

In order to supress the crowd and presumably contain the blaze on the quiet the PA announces starts the countdown to the firework display.  This is the real reason we are here as the kids love fireworks and I’ve read that this is a good effort.  I’m now pleased that we have this position near the barrier as I should have the perfect view of this near legendary display… I turn to the kids…

“Turn your faces to the sky children in preparation of the delights to come… we don’t want to miss one dazzlingly explosion..”  The kids look up, the joy evident in their innocent faces, I set my face to maximum excitement…. Here we go…

Three…two…..one…… kerrrrrrrboooooommmmmm!!!

….I’ve never been a lucky person on any level.  If I can misjudge something I probably will….

Behind me I hear a massive opening barrage of fireworks.  To the front nothing.  Nish.  Nada. To the left an aged and toothless old crone points skywards and cheers but she’s looking behind me… everyone is looking behind me.

I spin round to nearly see the display in full flow. I say nearly because not only have we put ourselves in the wrong place for the main event but a very large street size is obliterating all but the edges of the main explosions.

I turn to the kids to avert disaster and find that they are still looking skyward in the wrong direction with beaming smiles.  I whip around to take in the majesty of a ridiculously large road sign silhouetted from the remnants of East Sussex’s greatest firework event….. The brother-in-law looks at me and rightly pisses himself.  This sort of shit only happens to me.

And then, with three massive explosions in the shape of three 12 foot seagulls the event ends.  The PA announces that the lunacy is over and we should all return to our pathetic, fire free lives.

The herd shuffles off and we head back to the guest house bar for a night cap where we are confronted by a packed house of soft drink guzzlers watching four Dads knock out mid-tempo cover versions to rapturous applause worthy of a Led Zep reunion gig.

The next morning after sleeping on a bed as hard as a dogs head and a fully acceptable breakfast in a room smelling of bleach, we take a walk into the old town and I am pleasantly surprised.

No longer do the cobbles smell of piss and sick after a Saturday night but it to have gone all bohemian with all kinds of new coffee houses with books shelves and bars with London DJ’s popping up.  It’s Brighton-lite without the stag and hen do’s ruining the atmosphere and the ponces flopping about in heavy trousers and bow ties seeking out new types of coffee in tiny, tiny cups.

Of course it still has the hippy shop with the £200 copy of Frodo’s sword from ‘ The Lord of the Rings’ which has not been sold in the 10 years I have been coming here but it is now joined by a £150 full size plastic Gandalf staff which lights up with magic….or pressing a button.

It’s a strange feeling but I’m enjoying myself mooching around and I suddenly get the feeling that I could probably live here.  I stare into an estate agents window and view a five bedroom property with land that I could buy outright if I sold up in London….  My mind thinks about it…. I’ve had a great time but could I live here on a daily basis without the thrill of the Fire? The surge of naked heat? The smell of burning tinder? The rush of the torch bearers?

…’No’ is the simple answer…. Fuck the seaside…..

I was going to write a different blog but chose not to.

A blog is self indulgent pursuit at the best of times but one about a night in your life that you thought was hilarious to you and those present might not be to others so it’s best to leave it as a five minute anecdote in a pub.  If you see me about and don’t know the tale of “The Black Balsam”, ask me and I’ll spill it like I spilt that particular liquid all over a quilt on that fateful night but be warned…you’ll need a strong stomach and a disturbing, guttural sense of humour.

This blog will be more relevant than a night out 15 years ago and more in keeping with why I started an observational blog a year ago about the freaks I encounter in everyday life.

..It’s been a busy month…

Firstly, the Prodigal Son returned, all too briefly, form the Far East, and the nights out with far flung mates from various locations made me realise why we have tight knit circles of friends rather than rooms of associates…less is more.  Many beers were downed and then Bun was gone again and life returns to normal for the sake of my liver.  Top stuff all round from you all…..We should do it more often and with increasing ferocity. Here’s to the next time…

Builders…..  ‘Tradesmen’,  ‘The Grafters’,  ‘Men of the soil’. This month my house has seen a swarm of builders crawl all over it in the name of ‘Loft Conversion’.  I’ve been watching them closely.

Before I describe my interactions with the builders I have to explain something…I need builders, without builders I would be living in a cave, or under a bridge as I am generally hopeless at DIY.

Examples of my lack of prowess in the building game are many but include notable examples such as falling out of a loft hatch having not seen the hole, electrocuting myself rewiring a door bell and being found in the doorway by a kindly passer-by, putting up a coat rack with such ineptitude that in the end I simply put a picture up to cover the mess and screwing through a central heating pipe when your girlfriend is eight months pregnant and flooding a downstairs neighbour.

Actually the last example was my crowning glory of stupidity as I simple wanted to stop a floor board creaking and managed to screw cleanly through a pressurised pipe.

I was alerted to the problem by the 75 year old in the flat below who was worried about the water dripping from her light fitting.  As she spoke it hit me….. I run upstairs and pulled up a floor board to see the screw perfectly central to the pipe. Un-fuckin-believable.  Stupidly I remove the screw and am hit in the face with a luke warm gush that Ron Jeremy would have been proud of.

While I stem the flow Jen rings my mate Kieran.

Kieran knows builders, he knows all kinds of people, he’s a popular bloke who I trust and have known for 35 years.  After about twenty minutes Kieran arrives with Knoxy who is the only plumber he could raise at the time. Knoxy is a yet another great bloke, a professional, a lover of Brazilian beer and Golf, a man with tools that haven’t come from B&Q.  I can’t see them arrive as I’m lying on the floor holding the pipe, stemming the flow, grafting hard doing low level, non-plumbing plumbing.

I look up and see my saviour Knoxy has a broken arm.  I look at Kieran with my ‘are you taking the fucking piss’ face to which he merely raises an eyebrow. He’s a man of few words and we are deep in the shit now so I have to trust him. Knoxy’s a pro… this just might work.

Over the next hour Knoxy instructs Kieran in what to do and I lie their helpless in my own dirty uselessness. Between them they fix the problem and then piss themselves while talking about me being an idiot in my own house.  Who can blame them? The screw in question was placed directly in the centre of a floorboard exactly where a pipe would be. If you need a pipe finding I’m your man.

It’s safe to say that my skills are limited.  Jen is the brains.  She does the measuring and I do the hammering… so to speak. She is all precision and I am the blunt instrument. I endlessly question and doubt the measuring but she is always accurate and I am always incorrect.   I am used as muscle on low level tasks within this house.  Lifting stuff, smashing stuff…. I am the torque of the screwdriver or the heft behind the mallet.  I am nothing and so I rely on the skill of others…..

So let’s start at the beginning…. All major projects start with these fuckers.  Scaffolders.

Scaffolders are a breed apart.  They are the foot soldiers of the building industry…the grunts…The animals.  They are not unskilled as putting up and taking down scaffolding, to me anyway requires a certain skill and immense strength far beyond my capabilities.  The problem with the scaffolder is the stupidity.  I’ve never encountered one that wasn’t a bit of a stroker.  They tend to be trappier than normal, more “Oi! Oi!” Than “Ahoy! Hoy!”.

They also have little regard for your stuff.  They smash stuff unnecessarily.  My neighbour had scaffolders at the same time as I did from a different firm.  It was a bare chested tattooed face off scenario where they were like apes fighting for territory with my scaffolders worthy winners of the ‘2001’ bone due to the fact that they didn’t smash a window with a scaffold plank or smash my door light with a wayward pole.  They might be wankers but at least they are my wankers.

It never used to be this easy.  Years ago another set of scaffolders hoisted up their erection around my house during which time they played football in the garden with a tin of watery paint spraying it up the wall….there was no apology.

I also recall sitting in the living room while the main man gibboned his way around the poles before hanging outside the living room window staring at me for a good minute while gently swaying. We locked eyes and it was I who blinked first in order to get the job done. It was slightly unnerving but we got through it…together.

The scaffolders leave and I meet the main men.

These men are tasked with creating my loft.  Simon and Peter.  This throws me.  Where have the builders’ names gone? Where is ‘Pete’? Where is ‘Keith’? or ‘Dave’ and ‘Steve’?  I can’t have this….next you know they’ll be a builder called ‘Tristram’ or ‘Jeffrey’.  This trade is the final bastion on the “…’Ave it!!…” culture.  I’m not having it.  I will shorten their names to ‘Si’ and ‘Pete’ in order to maintain the long standing traditions that made this country and its workforce of Ladbrooks attendees and bacon sandwich eaters the Masters of build that they are.

Both Peter and Simon are lovely blokes.  Simon is the older one….the brains…wiry and lithe whereas Peter is the young muscle with a brooding silence.  He don’t speak much and I imagine he’s killed many a rabbit during a friendly cuddle.

Lovely or not I’m ready for these fuckers.  I’m preparing to go all ‘Gangmaster’ and lay down the law about lunchbreaks and bookmakers visits.  I’ve been here before years ago when I came home unexpectedly to find the two Polish labourers grafting and the natives of this land up the café or in William Hill’s on my day rate… pisstakers.  Not this time.  I’m Judge Dredd with the hump… they’re not the law…. I am the law.

Out of the blue they whip out prepared salads from their bags and bottles of water and ask if they can use my refrigeration services…the power shifts in their favour as I become all accommodating.. Dirty Rotters…

I stand by the kettle. I know my place.  I’m arranging the specially purchased, low level, dust teabags and the white sugar that only gets an airing in the chipped ‘builders cups’.  I’m eyeing them up.  Strong tea the colour of mud with three sugars each I reckon as nothing else is acceptable in this office worker / builder stand-off.   Fuck this shit, one is on juice and the other wants milky tea with no sugar, no wonder the country is all over the shop..

We have ‘Day One’ small talk and they climb the scary ladder to the roof… Oh yes…. ‘The Ladder’.  I hate ladders, wobbly, bouncy and only going up, usually these attributes would grab my attention but not today….they have the upper hand, I’m on the rack early doors.

Over the next few days I make sure that I’m about in the mornings to have a chat with the main man and as a result I get to know him and we engage in bawdy chat where I throw a few fucks in and laugh at stuff I wouldn’t normally do.  But I’m not in it for the swearing, I can easily out swear anyone alive or dead. I was trained by a professional, angry swearer with an encyclopaedic knowledge of offensive language… He was the Gandalf of Expletives.

I’m engaging with him as over the first few days he’s been slightly taking liberties in his attitude towards Jen. He’s not rude or abusive because that would be easy to deal with through physical ejection from my house with a note for his boss explaining that the next £8,000.00 won’t be forthcoming from the client. What he is doing though is being condescending, patronising and mostly sexist.  If you’ve ever met Jen you’ll realise pretty quickly that this kind of attitude is doomed to failure. Jen knows her stuff as she’s the queen of research.  Six building firms have attended this house to tender for the work with Jen knowing all about them before they enter the building.  One of these firms couldn’t answer Jen’s questions and after telling her she knew ‘her stuff’ they left in shame.

A few years back during another epic refurb project instigated by Jen I came home to find her in an uneasy stand-off with some lumpy aging builder.  I asked what was wrong and she raised an eyebrow and explained that the builder, on delivering the comical quote, refused to accept Jen’s decision and was waiting to discuss it with ‘the man of the house’.  I dispatched him robustly…

This plum thinks he can blind Jen with technical bullshit…. He can’t….and so in order to keep the peace I intervene and sit him down to explain that whatever Jen wants, she gets.  It’s the law of the house he’s tearing apart.

At this point it all spills out…….His wife has left him…..

This throws me momentarily.  Normally I couldn’t care less and ‘Not my problem’ would leave my mouth but as my future comfort rests in his hands I feel the need to show a crumb of concern.  Over the next ten minutes you would have heard me say the following:

• “You’re Joking mate?” (shocked mouth agape
• “Unbelievable” (arms folded, head shaking slowly)
• “She’s well out of order” (while prodding the table)…
• “What you going to do?” (oozing concern, palms open followed by “what CAN you do?)
• “it must be difficulty” (raised eyebrows, head tilting to one side)
• “how are the kids?….must be hard for them” (mouth downturned slightly)
• “take her to the cleaners mate”  (hard face engaged, fist clenched)

…and my personal favourite…”The Money Shot” if you will….

• “Do you think she is sleeping with someone else?” (deadpan)

I was actually more industrial with the final question as I wanted one of two possible reactions in order to trigger the worker in him.  He could be disgusted and return up the ladder or he could be shocked and would return up the ladder….. He returned up the ladder in disgusted shock….Happy Days….

Over the following weeks I was subjected to a daily update with regard to ‘the wife’.

On one occasion he showed me a picture of her on his phone and said:

“You wouldn’t let that go without a fight would ya?…look at her!!… I’ve got enough love for the two of us!!”

I look at the picture.  She’s alright but wouldn’t stand out in a crowd as there is too much ‘vagasling Essex’ happening in my view.  Beauty is truly in the eye of the beholder so each to their own and so I let out a non-descript, non committal noise to let him know I have acknowledged the existence of the photo before me.

…Mental…

Over the next few weeks I get a daily update on the state of his collapsing relationship.

It’s not too bad.  Turns out he’s the type of bloke that checks his missus’ phone and doesn’t like what he found.  If you don’t want to know then don’t go looking is my mantra.

Checking someone’s messages on their phone is as bad as whatever they are up to.  He deserves the misery but his kids don’t so I remain lethargically sympathetic which gains me the upper hand.  The problem I have is that he’s not retaining enough focus on my loft as his mind is elsewhere…. I can’t have that.

It got so bad at one point that when I asked him if everything was okay he informed me that he had instructed a solicitor.  “What?  For the loft? “says I, raising a finger skyward.  “ ahh… sorry” he says, “..my head’s all over the place at the minute”… If he don’t get up that ladder… it might be.

The job progresses and all the trades start to appear at my house…

First up.  Plumbers, the drummers of the building world.

Unless you are a heating engineer I see plumbing as fairly easy.  Plumbing is Lego with the problem of added water. So long as you understand gravity and washers it shouldn’t really be an issue should it?  Two plumbers turn up.  Ross and Chris who are brothers.  Chris barely speaks and I get to thinking that builders, when in pairs, leave all the interaction to one or the other.

Ross is a professional.  He talks calmly like a surgeon about to remove a tumour, a tumour that turns out to be my money.  Nothing he has to do is a ‘problem’ and he slowly and methodically talks me through the process completely unlike the two in the loft who are keen for me to stay away until it’s completed.  I like the plumber, he’s a man I can do business with and I trust him not to mess me about.

During the build I spend a lot of time working from home so I can keep an eye on the workers.  One afternoon I make the mistake of wandering into the garden to have a look at the progress from a different angle.  I instantly know this is a mistake as they are on a break and are looking down at me from the top of the ladder…

“You coming up to have a look mate” one of the flash fuckers says with a more than a hint of a laugh in his voice.

They know I hate the ladder, it’s a test I can’t fail.  Without replying and in silence due to fear I start the ascent.  I may be a desk monkey but these Jubs can’t have the upper hand and so I must conquer the spindled snake of death arcing and bouncing it’s way up to my roof through the imaginary clouds making it even more hazardous.

Once I’m up there they skulk about and I ask hundreds of questions.  Their realm has been invaded and I am back in command of my own house.  I will now randomly appear at the top of the ladder in order to pile on the pressure, by pointing at things clearly half built.  I overcome my vertigo to bluff my way through it.  Getting down from any height is relatively simple.  Like air travel I find the descent easier as my mind tells me that with every second I’m closer to the ground and so the chances of survival increase.

….and then the Plasterer arrived….

Plastering is an undoubted skill.  If you’ve ever tried to do it without ten years of experience you will know this. The plasterer appeared two days late.  I was told he was sick but he tells Jen he was busy elsewhere.  These tossers can’t even get the basic lies straight.  He only drinks water and ‘squash’ which is a word I haven’t heard since 1976.

He’s a little bloke, about 5’ 4”… a little cockney plasterer who I reckon I could throw a good 20 feet 3.87 inches, easy.  He has that high pitched voice that Hertfordshire based Londoners have…You can really feel the bigotry and violence in the pitch.

I don’t take well to this bloke as he’s whinging that the job is too big and he keeps endlessly repeating it like I’m going to tell him not to bother with some bits. This doesn’t happen, in fact I find extra bits that he can fix as he deserves the slavery.

He also has that annoying habit of being overly polite.  He can’t speak to me without apologising for nothing or thanking me for everything.  I’ve already told him that he can use the water and the tea bags and I’m getting slightly arsey at having to repeat it in order for it to sink in.  I almost tell him that as long as he doesn’t shit on the floor and gets the plastering done sharpish I’ll be happy.  I switch off from this cheeky, chirpy, Cockney Herbert in order to deal with the Electrician.

The electrician requires no ‘dealing with’ however as he’s in his 60’s and has seen it all before.  He has the client / builder balance correctly aligned.  He’s polite when need be, he’s funny, doesn’t moan and he’s quick and accurate.  He does the job once with minimal fuss as he’s a seasoned campaigner.  Like an old sweat the Sparky drinks strong tea (“two bags mate”) and two sugars… outstanding stuff from the old man.  I applaud him.

The tiler is another matter.  The milky coffee with no sugar belies his carriage.   He’s a big unit with a cap that doesn’t fit his head. He’s North London encapsulated in one massive body and he hasn’t even opened his mouth yet but I can tell from his peculiar gait. I eye him up and it makes me wonder how he’ll manage to carry out the tiling in the tight places but as he’s clearly not starving I’m guessing he’s capable.

He introduces himself and seems decent enough initially but it all starts going downhill rapidly when he continues talking and talking and talking.  He also has that ‘jokey’ demeanour of the nervous where everything is a joke that only he laughs at.  In the ten minutes we chat I know everything about him.  Where he lives, family history, work history (he used to be a postman) and significant events in his life.  Overly nourished and externally happy, the worst of all combinations. So long as he does a good job and I limit the interaction we’ll get along fine.

As the days go on I start to trust in their abilities and leave them to it.  And then quite rapidly and without me paying much attention their work is done.

Unfortunately like all builders they leave one thing not quite completed.  It’s like that Killer Whale documentary where after gorging themselves on seals for hours all they do with the final one is chuck it about rather than eat it leaving the feeding frenzy ‘open’.  I’m certain all builders have this same mentality.  A job isn’t complete until it’s not complete.  The job left unresolved is a creaky floorboard so I’m not making a massive deal of it, and I’m not attempting to fix it either. I let them keep the tradition as even though it doesn’t sound like it I respect builders, I need their skills and respect the traditions of the building industry even if

So I stand in the new loft space with a smile on my face.  It’s over to me now as finances dictate that I am the decorator.  I’m organised and have all my stuff strategically arranged for maximum efficiency, I’ve been watching the professionals.  I climb the step ladder and roll on the first stripe of the ‘mist’ coat on the newly plastered wall.  The paint runs thin on my roller and I lean back to admire my opening effort.   This is a piece of piss…I’m a natural…

I blindly step off the ladder in awe of my achievement while planning a new career as an international decorator for the glitterati and step straight onto the edge of a plastic tub of paint splitting it from top to bottom.  As I watch the five litres of white emulsion ooze onto the newly laid floor I open ‘Google’ up on my phone and search for ‘mute, non-cockney, happily married, tea drinking decorators’…

….Nothing…. I am alone with a puddle of paint with no skill….

….Bollocks……

Mistakes.   Everyone has made them.  Some are small and mean nothing, others are massive.

This is the tale of my greatest mistake which was a relationship I engaged in far too quickly without any thought.  It was a painful experience but a valuable one in the life experience box.  Unfortunately it took four years and put me almost back to where I was when I started.

Fear not dear reader, it’s none of you and it will only contain the funny, or odd moments rather that the sad, tragic ones of which there were a few and one in particular.  That incident or the ‘Traumatic event’ as I refer to it later as, will remain in the dungeon in my head as it would be unfair to release it even though she’s not party to this.  My trusted soldiers know that moment in all its graphic emotional detail and I’m happy that it remains like that.

All relationships have problems and challenges to overcome otherwise they wouldn’t be interesting and we wouldn’t crave the company of the opposite sex.  We all love a challenge but the magnitude of some challenges only become apparent when you are up to your guts in the blood and bullets with no sign of escape.

The transition from the previous relationship to this fruit loop is not relevant so all you really need to know is that following a lot of arguing and weepy agreement “previous” and I split up.  I believe to this day that we both think we ended it as we still don’t agree on the way it ended the reality is that we just grew apart as we were essentially different people at that point.  Relationships mostly end with either death, annoyance or irritation on the part of one or the other and this was no exception.  In essence I found myself at the tail end of one relationship, with an intelligent woman I’d known since School and almost immediately into another one with a whole different kind of animal.

Firstly, I should explain something.  I have never knowingly pulled or chatted up anyone.  I have relied on luck and at a push humor to get me within the snogging arc of a woman.  Essentially this is because I am a shy person initially regardless of all the mouth and opinion.

My ‘technique’ when it comes to the opposite sex is to either let it all happen around me or blindly walk straight into it to see what happens…. Sometimes it works and sometimes it goes spectacularly wrong on a number of levels.

She needs a name so let’s call her “Mildred” as I don’t know anyone called that and it’s not her real name.

I met Mildred at work.  She was engaged at the time to a hippy with no big toes.  When I met her she seemed normal and I didn’t know she was a weepy, scatty, needy, head case, spend thrift, manipulative, liar with a food allergy and a heroin addict, bullying, father.  Had I known these factoids I would clearly have chosen a different chalice…. In the words of the Knight at the end of ‘Indiana Jones and the last Crusade’ I chose unwisely and ignored my own mantra of “Knowledge is Power” to dive headlong into uncharted territory led by something far smaller than my brain.

And so we head back to the mid 90’s to an wage crippling rented flat in North London and a CD player blasting out floppy hat wearing, mumbling drunk dwarf troubadour Van Morrison’s opening lines of “Astral Weeks” his much heralded 1968 snooze fest album…

 “If I ventured in the slipstream

Between the viaducts of your dream

Where immobile steel rims crack

And the ditch in the back roads stop

Could you find me? Would you kiss-a my eyes?

To lay me down In silence easy

To be born again”

 This ‘chuck a few words at a piece of paper’ approach to lyrics is complete cobblers and its endless playing should have sounded as a screaming, twirling, flashing red light warning siren to anyone at the beginning of a relationship. Unfortunately she saw these words and in fact the whole shower of shit album as the bedrock of a future with me.

As lust is blind I attempted to embrace this shit rather than ignore it and return to familiar, simple territory in the form of Van Halen’s greatest lyric from 80’s Hard Rock classic ‘Everybody wants some!’

“You can’t get romantic on a subway line,

Conductor don’t like it says you’re wasting your time

But everybody wants some….I want some too…..

Everybody wants some…..how ‘bout you?”

These lyrics mean more to me more than a miserable Irishman’s ramblings as I have, on many occasions, actually been on a tube train with various women in a series of romantic clinches wanting ‘some’. However both sets of words mean fuck all in reality. Never pin your hopes on a song to define love because, unless you wrote, it it’s not about you or the one you crave, you’ve merely borrowed it to be a ponce and potentially have sex.

Like all relationships it started well….or perhaps relatively well.

There was the inevitable opening salvo of lots of sex, drinking, eating and excessive socializing.  However the party period ended fairly quickly and I soon found myself in a usual routine.  It’s a bit like going on holiday and falling in love with the place you visit.  You dream of living there as you had such a great time on holiday relaxing but if you lived there every day and had to suffer what everyone else does on a daily basis to survive like tube trains, weather and work then  it’s a different story.  It becomes just another thing that you deal with.

Due to the situation on her side we moved in together immediately and rented a flat in my locality.  In hindsight I probably should have moved somewhere else but I was more connected than her and so she headed my way.  This was exciting for her but difficult for me as I would inevitably bump into the “previous” which would have been awkward for everyone.  To be fair the “previous” didn’t make it awkward… she dealt with it with aplomb and class much to compound my shame.

The problems started fairly quickly.   One Saturday after we had moved in I prepared to head off to play football, a heinous crime at the best of times but in this case right up there with sleeping with her sister apparently.  She knew I played football…. Everyone knew but she assumed that was over in favour of long walks and far off looks…She was wrong.

This caused a major wobble on the part of Mildred as she expected to be with me every waking minute.  She looked distressed and described herself as ‘gutted’ which I found hilarious for a grown woman.   This was a sign of things to come, the first hint of the deep anxiety within.

And then the crying started.

The floodgates opened and they wouldn’t shut for four fuckin’ years…. Everything seemed to spark her into floods of tears.  Cats in adverts, Dogs on leads, running out of teabags, Van Morrison, The Beatles, bruised apples, dishcloths, the ‘wrong’ rice, prawns, the bloke with no big toes, another ex I’ve never met,  bin liners that were too small, train stations, dishwashers, pine furniture, the smell of crayons…. You name it she’d cry about it or attempt to cry about it.  It turned out to be a dewy-eyed ‘love me I’m vulnerable’ tactic.  Tears should never be used for a manipulative purpose because you might need them one day.

Then there was the stupidity.

A moment of this that sticks in the mind is one morning when we were standing at an open platform waiting for the train to work.  It was very windy and she was standing with her hands in her coat pockets.  I was looking down the track for the train talking to her all the while when I heard a muffled screaming.

I looked around and a carrier bag had blown up and lodged itself around her face in an Alien face-hugger kind of way.

She was screaming and ferociously shaking her upper body and head trying to free the bag.  It was reminiscent of that dance that aging potbellied Quo fans do to “Whatever You Want”.  I look across the tracks and see that the entire southbound platform are in hysterics… who can blame them?  I nearly issued an Selwyn Froggatt double thumbs up before realizing that I was responsible for her.

I suppressed the laughter and calmly walk over to her and remove the bag like a kidnapper revealing himself to the captured. I then surveyed the scene of facial devastation. Hair disheveled, make-up smudged.  It’s a mess….Head Carnage at eight in the morning.  Unsalvageable.

I ask her what happened and she explains the bag just flew up in the wind and wrapped itself around her face.  Being slightly less than truly thick I had worked that out already.

“Why didn’t you pull it off with your hands?” says I…

(Long pause)

“ ..They were in my pockets….” she says…and then bursts into tears….

I saw a lot of this stuff.  It was real low level intelligence that I wasn’t used to.

You don’t need to be a nuclear scientist to realize that you can’t cook a frozen pie in a microwave for 30 minutes without an issue involving a window and a descending, smoking pie crashing into the roof of a parked car from 20 feet above it.  It’s not normal to put cooking salt in a dishwasher and if you are going to lie remember the previous lies or you get sussed out pretty quick and possibly in a restaurant in Rhodes by a mate of mine..  I appeared to be going out with ‘Duckface’ from Four Weddings and I didn’t like it.

The “previous” was and is a highly intelligent person from intelligent, well-mannered stock.   This is what I was used to.  I’d never been out with someone this needy and dim witted and so I was struggling to adapt without smashing a hammer into my forehead to level the playing field.  She had forced me into some form of educational snobbery even though I was comprehensively educated to a low, can’t be arsed level.

If you go out with me you need to be a fairly robust woman to reign me in as I can get out of control fairly quickly.  I’m happy for the argument and can take a bollocking so I need a woman who can dish it out.  I’m not used to subservient, tearful, pretend dimwits who struggle with the basics in an adult relationships.  However it was my shit storm so I ploughed on as there was no one else to blame.  I was in it and needed to deal with it…

And then I met the family.

No one else’s family can faze me as I come from an intense upbringing.  Metaphorically it was kill or be killed with extreme humor chucked in.  It was a great laugh with some challenging moments but it made me a better person capable of pretty much dealing with anything.

In the first few months I had heard a lot about Mildred’s Father.  My initial reaction was that he sounded like a prick. That remained my position throughout…. He was a prick.

Prior to meeting him I was constantly warned that he was mental, a “loose cannon”, “not to be messed with”…blah blah.  But like I said I was brought up by a master piss taker who never, ever backed down and so I was ready for this bloke years before I met his daughter.

We arrive at the family ranch following a fraught panicky journey on her part where she didn’t like the seat on the train sparking a little cry in carriage two.  The Mother was lovely, the brothers are funny talented blokes…. the sister is pretty much a scumbag who I would never like. Cocky and sly with a low level smirky husband.  Right up my street…

I look around for the Patriarch… I see the granddad sitting in a chair, all craggy and wizen in a haze of cigarette smoke.  They introduce the Dad and I look behind the granddad for a body.  Nothing there.  And then it clicks.

I look around at the terrified family and my face says ‘are you lot taking the piss?’. I reckon I could get my whole hand around this bloke’s neck and I have tiny, pixie hands.  The visual experience was hugely irritating and immensely punchable.

He was a beady little bloke who liked to sit in silence desperately trying to intimidate all before him but he was and failing massively on this occasion.  I shook his hand and he held the grip slightly longer than was necessary, always a sign of instant defeat, in my view.  It oozes ‘I’m the Guv’nor’ but masks inadequacy in the trouser department.

He spent most of the time with his shirt off revealing heroin (burned, bent spoons had been found in the garage) sculptured abs and overlong spindly, snapable arms.  I was fascinated by his nose which was a monstrous, coke chugging hoover where the most surprising thing about it was that it wasn’t battered flat by someone with a better handshake.  I’m not backward at coming forward so I decided to engage him in conversation.  I could sense that I was irritating him immediately as I wasn’t Mildred’s ex, the no big toes hippy who barely spoke and was a timid frightened boy at the best of times.

To keep the peace I backed down to allow him to win in his own house.  In the long term this ultimately was a mistake as he seemed to thrive off my territorial compliance and became a greater bully to his family than I should have allowed him to be.

The greatest moment of bullying witnessed first-hand by me was on Christmas morning when I’d stayed at the family home.  I was sitting on the sofa next to the Dad engaging him in a meaningless conversation when the mother entered the room and asked me if I wanted a bacon sandwich.  Before the words had finished coming from her mouth, Dad interrupted and said “I’ve told you before Cunt, don’t interrupt the men when they are talking…. Now fuck off…”

….Lovely stuff eh?  I’ve heard a lot of swearing in my time but not much this unnecessary to boost your own skeletal ego.

At that moment I had two options.  I could either remove myself from the sofa and follow the mother out of the room (nothing) or I could wipe him out on his own sofa, potentially get arrested for GBH and ruin Christmas (all).  Sadly as I love Christmas I chose the festive, less violent option I walked out to apologize myself to the Mother to raspy B&H cries of “where the fuck do you think you are going?” from the oxygen thief.  We would never engage in a conversation again.

In reality these mugs had let this bag of bones dominate them for years and so I felt only partially on board to assist them. I was new on the plot and not a knight in shining armour or gun for hire.  There were two brothers who could have removed him from their lives long ago but cowered in his skinny shadow.  They suffered him… I didn’t have to.

It was a defining moment in the relationship.  I wanted nothing to do with the Dad after that so it made things extra difficult as oddly they were a tight family in the face of brutality.  Long after we split I heard that the mother snapped one day, battered him and chucked him out… that’s all it took, one moment of defiance from the bullied and the bullies generally crumble.

Life continued and we bumbled along living in an expensive flat.  We had no money as she had expensive taste and wasted it all.  For some reason she would only wear top end make up and lotions that would skint me out monthly.  She would sign up for college courses and then only attend once before weeping and claiming it was the wrong thing.  She required specialist food, special shoes and liked to travel by cab even from North London to Wandsworth on Christmas day to deliver a trifle to her brother…. I was losing the will… she was a money pit rather than a life partner.  When you start to worry about the wallet over love it’s the clearest sign that you need to jack it in but I refused to give up.  I wanted it to work.

It’s at this point that the traumatic event happened.  It will forever be emblazoned on my memory like a red hot burn mark from an electric ring reminding you to get an oven glove next time.  It brought us closer together temporarily as it should have done.  It was a bad time.

In an attempt to fix the problems and start afresh somewhere with less memories we bought a flat which had a mortgage considerably cheaper than the rent we were paying.  It was important to try to draw a line under stuff and push forward.  I saw this as a chance to make it work and for a while it did but all the tears and crap returned albeit in a different venue eventually.

It was a nice flat but had difficult neighbours who were hard work.   The neighbor directly below us was an alcoholic hippy with a habit of leaving his front door open in a drunken stupor.  I could deal with this as it was no big deal…. Everyone likes a comedy drunk right?

The next door neighbours were more challenging.  You couldn’t bump into them or in fact see them without an endless conversation that required a “go away” conclusion.  If you didn’t cut the conversation off you would never get away.

Our flat had a first floor terrace that overlooked the crazies garden.  It was impossible to sit on the terrace doing anything without multiple, rapid fire questions from them.  “What are you doing? Why are you doing it? What are you doing later? When are you doing it?”  This kind of thing…. I was getting ruder by the day… they were oblivious, committed and continuous.

One day I come home from being out and I walk in the kitchen and find Mildred crying.  This wasn’t an unusual occurrence but I felt compelled to ask as it was more sustained and moany than normal. It would appear that the neighbours had been in their garden engaging in a spot of external, garden based felatio.

Now, I’m no prude and generally believe that if it floats your boat, is legal and affects no one directly you should be allowed to do it but this was taking the piss.  They were aged and pale not sleek and glowing like porn stars.

I asked Mildred to try to explain exactly what the problem was.  She said that she was doing some general weeping around the house and had ventured onto the back terrace to weep at the garden.  Once outside she noticed a rather old man with long, flayling white hair facing skywards with his eyes closed.  Below him, was the bobbing head of the 60 plus year old neighbor who I’m reliably informed was going at it like a dog with a hot chip.

The deliverer of the ‘chip’ wasn’t her husband either as I knew him to be taller, balder with a lazy eye and an elongated head.  I tell Mildred to calm down and remove herself from the hysteria she was heading towards as it’s not as if she’s unaccustomed to the act she’s been witnessing.

I’m not certain how I kept a straight face but in the spirit of professionalism I did and headed to the garden to confront the ‘gobbler’ and the ‘gobbled’.

For dramatic effect I stood on the terrace, stentorian voice booming downwards to the cowering trainee ‘goo girl’ and toothless Father Christmas lookalike who clearly couldn’t believe his luck at this stage in his life.

“I know what’s been going on here….. You sicken me….disgusting…”  Says I emphasizing the word ‘disgusting’.  They look sheepish, panicked and shocked by my authority. Santa attempts to speak, then pauses… I intervene with a finger to my lips which I then point at him.

“You mate…. I’m watching you…”

This is a complete load of bollocks with absolutely no meaning and no intent on my part but I’m banking on intellectual inferiority  kicking in as he isn’t the brightest tool, although Mildred did claim that he was ‘shiny’ ‘mauve’ and ‘bulbous’ and she’d know… she’d seen a few.

Then he speaks… He’s filled with hate and anger not embarrassment.

“..I’ll burn you fuckin’ house down…” he says in the very fast voice of the frantic…

There’s a twenty second pause while I let this sink in. I only do this for dramatic effect as he couldn’t be less threatening if he tried.  I smile… then burst out laughing, he goes absolutely mental in a ‘let me at him’ way, the Gobbler howls at the moon and Mildred wails into a tear sodden tea towel…. Bedlam erupts around me and I’m tempted to find the camcorder however I laugh and point at him….it’s the stuff of nightmares but I continue the ‘point and laugh’ schtick until I shut the terrace door and head out of sight to mop up a river of tears.

In the aftermath I decide that whenever I see the recipient of ‘natures nosh’ I will simple make the ‘Nee Nar, Nee Nar’ noise like a police car indicating his eventual arrest.  It drives him mental and I even do it from within the house when I see him in the garden when he can’t see me.  The felatioed pensioner screams the place down thinking he’s hearing ‘voices’ every time….slowly, slowly, catchy monkey….

In an attempt to calm the situation and stop a potential inferno engulfing my flat I bow down to Mildred pressure and contact the local authority who intervene and force the pyro’s into writing an apology.  This apology was followed by a rather crude hand drawn picture of me on fire being anonymously posted through the letterbox. When I eventually leave Mildred in the coming months, another anonymous note is passed through the door which reads:

 “… The Devil is gone…Good…”

 It was at this point that my interest in Mildred started to wane considerably.  Does anyone really need all the whining?  Is it why you attempt to start up a life with someone? No it isn’t.

I start enjoying myself without her, in fact at times I don’t even think about her when I’m out.  I was less than saintly during this time… the smaller brain had literally raised its head and left the relationship.   This was when I met Jen and so that was the end of Mildred as far as I was concerned.

And so we reach the end game…the burst for freedom, the first cut of the barbed wire.

The reality with any break up is actually saying the words that is the Rubicon moment.  You only have to say them or hear them once to know It’s over.  It’s rarely said in haste and normally it is meant…. It’s the fatal blow.

I had thought about the words for a while and then one morning I woke up and decided the time was right and I needed a better life than this and so delivered the bad news.  To my surprise she was remarkably calm about it.  Maybe she’d cried herself out over the previous four years or perhaps she was as miserable as I was.

We told the respective families and started to make the necessary arrangements.

Bizarrely my parents were less happy with the situation than I thought possible.  Perhaps I hadn’t made it clear how bad the situation was…..they seemed to be suffering from a sense of grief that would hang about for about 6 months which caused some problems.

It was decided that I would leave and she would buy me out of the flat as I had called on the situation.  I would get a bit of money but when you balanced off the credit card debt she ran up in my name I’d end up with nothing but I didn’t care, the prize was moving on to happier times.

I needed somewhere to live and the ‘previous’ came to the rescue.  She said I could move back into the old flat which she now rented out which was handy and financially beneficial for me rather than her.  She is an lovely woman and remains a great person and I will be forever be grateful for her assistance during this time when she really should have let me suffer in a mess of my own creation.

In the run up to leaving I decided that a good idea would be to not hang around the flat too often.  Mildred was getting increasingly anxious about living on her own and all the old weepy, mental problems started to raise their head which merely confirmed that the correct decision had been made.

However I started to notice that the ‘mentalness’ only happened when I was in her company.  Somehow she successfully managed to crowbar her way into a half of my mates who excluded me from social events so she could attend.  I later found out that she had told this group that I was knocking her about.  This was complete cobblers.   I’ve never hit a woman and never will.  It’s the coward’s way.

I was hit quite hard once by a woman. I was at a party in the late 80’s in a bathroom when a right hook was delivered to my face by an angry girlfriend… probably my fault but there was no moment when I thought retaliation was acceptable or even partially warranted.

She also started spreading the word to the gullible that I was responsible for the traumatic event.  Her parting gift to me was to split my mates for her own weepy selfish exit.  I have little to do with those believers now….. I chose wisely….

In the week running up to my departure I needed to get on the lash, large.  And inevitably up stepped Bunny.  He sorted me out.

Two days before I moved out I was in the pub with Bun and I told him about all the bad stuff and the lack of stability…

“… I think she’s a bit nuts Bun…” says I through a haze of lager…

“..Mental mate… always has been…” he tells me….

“What?…. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Not my fuckin’ job to tell you…. Your job to find out….My job is to be here at the end for you… You wouldn’t have believed me anyway…”

Fine words from a great man…. He was spot on… Who would listen?

We leave the pub and I head back to the flat for the penultimate time. Bun comes with me as he’s ludicrously polite and feels the need to say his goodbye’s to Mildred… He’s in my gang… he isn’t sucked in like the other fuckers, he’s cutting it dead….

I open the door to the common area of the building and I find an obstruction.  Bun and I force the door and find the alcoholic hippy from downstairs lying unconscious on the floor.  He’s disheveled and I notice his teeth have been smashed out.  I could do without this.  This’ll push her over the edge in the last moments before I go over the top…

After we stop laughing we drag him to his feet, dish out the expletives and chuck him in his own door.   I pick up his teeth and chuck them in after him.

As expected Mildred is hiding in the flat terrified…. She’s heard the commotion and thinks death is imminent.  Bun says his goodbye’s and leaves me to it with a ‘good luck’ pat on the shoulder… in 48 hours it will be over.

We sit in silence for a long time.  Half the living room is filled with boxes of my stuff stacked up and ready to go.  I’m not moving very far so I’m expecting some fall out in the next few days.  Finally she breaks the silence:

“You’re not really going are you?”….she looks serious…

“Yes mate I am.  Do you remember that bloke who came and transferred the mortgage to you?  That was real.  All that stuff in boxes will be gone on Saturday and you need to understand that.”  It’s a painful moment but reality is required….reality is always required.  It had sunk in as no tears appeared.  It was real.

The day I move out she leaves early…. She’s not interested in witnessing it and neither would I be.  I use a mini cab on a shuttle basis to move in six trips.  It’s only a 10 minute walk away but as it’s my manor I feel I should remain in the area with the mates who believe me and not her.

And then it was done….

The last box is in the new/old flat and the cabbie is paid for the easiest job of his life. I’m in a flat I had left four years before with a can of lager and a load of boxes.  I sit with the radio and start to go through the boxes.  She has all the photo’s and all the joint purchased music the very lifeblood of any relationship… the memories and soundtrack of that period of your life and I didn’t ask for any of it and didn’t want it which says it all.

Then there’s a knock at the door… It was inevitable.

I open the door and she is standing there.  She rushes past me, up the stairs and walks around all the rooms in silence before bursting into tears and leaving at pace.

And that was that….

I conceived this blog as I was clearing out the loft and realized that in the 25 years since I left my parents’ house I had no good memories of a large section of that time. All there is are a few photos a note in a copy of the ’The Fellowship of the Ring’ from a man from the Crystal Palace thanking us for putting him up for Christmas. There’s no ticket stubs, no CD’s, no nothing.

I’m not blaming anyone for this other than myself as I chose the path of hedonism over intelligence with someone not suited to me.  I expect no sympathy….

The four years with Mildred were pretty poor and contained a moment of such taxing emotional tragedy that I can never forget her. It’s a deathbed memory even if I can eventually forget the tears and the bullshit.  It’s my curse…

Am I harsh?  Probably. I’m glad that I’ve maintained healthy friendships with all the people I’ve been ‘involved’ with.  That would be impossible with her…. Too teary….too selfish…

I think it is important to embrace the past relationships we have as part of the journey.  If you get involved with someone it’s forever whether you stay with them or not. Those memories exist and they play a part in your life for better or worse.   I’d like my kids to know that it can go wrong but you do recover and do move on.

Deep down she was probably a nice person but I only had that in flashes. Instead she chose needy, snidey and ultimately nasty which is normally the ‘run for your life’ trigger. I was blind to this and it proved the stupidity was mine and mine alone from the outset.

I’m not one for turning back the clock to erase the past but if I was this experience and the traumatic event specifically would have been the moment for the rubber in more ways than one.

So…. I had escaped mentally scarred and beaten from the season of the bitch, with a diminishing friend list and Jen wasn’t ready for to take the dip into my plasma pool yet.

I had gone backwards.  I needed mates or perhaps flat mates….. I need to tap up the Mancunian with the Black Balsam….

….now that sounds like a title for a blog…

Welcome my son….welcome… to… the routine.

• Wake up
• Bathroom
• Dress
• Tea
• Walk
• Freak Box

Every day the same.  Soul destroying.  Humans as Robots.  I try to snap myself out of this horror by watching…. Always watching….however…

“Quis custodiet ipsos custodies?”

This is my favourite, poncey, latin quote.  It loosely translates as “Who Watches the Watchmen”.  It works on many levels in my life unlike this quote which I once saw on the wall of an Irish themed pub:

“Strangers are just friends you don’t know yet”

Fuck that.  Strangers are merely targets for a twisted bloke’s blog…

It’s a chilly morning but refreshingly sunny.  No one likes rain on a walk to a sweat box so I’m happy enough to feel the chill.  Every day I pass my old primary school.  It’s been 35 years since I walked out of the doors but it still makes me smile. I have lasting memories of this place.  Reading ‘The Hobbit’ for the first time, Kiss chase, doing the Hornpipe and pissing myself during a school play as I was too scared of the music teacher to ask if I could use the toilet…  My God she was evil… Glory days tinged with fear.  I think I’d be right in saying I only know one ex pupil of this school and I’m glad I do know still know her… It’s been a journey..

In the car park I notice a piece of PE ‘Apparatus’ that was used when I attended the school.  It’s effectively an ‘A’ frame that was used to connect walking beams together.  I used to think it was a massive jump from the top but in reality it’s no taller than my kitchen bin.

‘Apparatus’..when did people stop using that word? No matter, it’s a nice nostalgic distraction from walking the Green Mile to the train to work.

I reach the station.  No sign of the God Squadder.  Not seen him for a while now so he could either be sitting with his deity or weeping in solitary confinement following a dawn raid for his computer. I’m hoping for the later..

The train is banged out as I’m later than usual but I manage to slip into a seat before the larger horde pile on at the next, more popular stop.  Sitting down on a packed tube is slightly disturbing as you are at a subservient crotch level which is rarely a good thing.

We trundle along and I minding my own business when I notice that the bloke standing in front of me has his fly agape.  What do you do?  I’m at crotch level and he is swaying from side to side with the trouser cave inches from me. I feel like Billy Hayes in ‘Midnight Express’ staring up at a hulking fellow prisoner on his knees in the shower waiting for a tasty treat to be violently administered.  To make things worse the owner of the Turkish Prison trousers is smirking in a cross eyed post coital way. …I’m uncomfortable…. I’m staring into his abyss and there’s a hint of a greater horror within the folds, lurking, lolling, craving freedom.

I seize the opportunity to give up my seat to a more willing participant in, what I reckon is, the inevitable crotch to face interaction following a heavy RMT ‘jumped a red’ based shunt. If the new seat dweller happens to be yawning it could be distressing for us all.

I rarely give up my seat.  The last time I did was by mistake. I was sitting quietly listening to some music and I noticed some bloke mouthing words and poking at the seat next to me.  He was a Frenchman.  I looked up and dramatically pulled out the earphones to find he wants me to move up a seat so he could sit with his girlfriend.  Inexplicably I did as requested.  My normal reaction would have been to replace the ‘phones and flash scathing contempt at him but I simply moved sideways like a paid off bouncer at the back door.  I let myself down and I know it… I’ve also let this magnificent city down.  Because of my actions we now have a Frenchman running amok telling people that the English, and particularly Londoners are polite and can be pushed about. No Frenchman should think that.

Historically I would only give up my seat to pregnant women and the disabled.  I’ve eliminated the old as, in my view, if you are on a train without a stick then it’s a matter for you… you made your choice, you are in the arena, you fight like the rest of us… this ain’t no Titanic lifeboat turnout.

Old people were essentially the reason I sit tight.  Many years ago I was minding my own business on the lower deck of a bus when a brute of an old lady barrelled on.  She was the type of old woman that you are not quite sure is a woman.  She’s wearing trousers has short hair, minimal make up (caked on) and a haggard face through sucking on a thousand Lambert and Butler king-size.  The only sign of femininity was the ‘basketballs in a parcel sack’ chest bobbing towards me like dogs watching a random ping pong ball bouncing across a kitchen floor.

It was a busy bus and although seats were limited they were available. The old girl walks up to me, grabs me quite firmly by the arm and in a gruff ‘Queen of the Council estate’ way says:

“..You!! …Out!!…I’m sitting there… These seats are for people older than you…MOVE!!..”

She then attempts to drag me off the seat.  I resisted and ask her what ‘the fuck’ she thinks she’s doing.  She hesitates and is clearly ruffled that I just haven’t rolled over like a timid neighbour confronted by a travellers BBQ.  I point to an empty seat that she has walked past and tell her to sit there but she wants my seat as she ‘always sits here’.  I inform her that she doesn’t know me from a bar of soap and so needs to be careful as randomly grabbing people on buses, with force, may result in a similar reaction.

She stands firm thinking I’m moving…. I’m not.

When I choose to do something I see it through. I’m a professional stubborn prick…I was made this way.  Let me give you an example…When you’ve held a stag weekend drinking whip for 72 hours straight, an old lady on a bus should causes no significant issues.

I decide to stay on the bus past my stop just to annoy her and stop her getting this specific seat.

After two fast taken corners by the driver and considerable wobbling on the part of her massive norks, she decides that my idea is the best for option on this occasion.  She wobbles off and sits, all the while eyeing my seat…… I wait and get further from my house but I sit firm… like a belligerent  twat…

Eventually a younger woman gets on and I offer her my seat before getting off a mile from my own house.  Victory is mine…pathetic I know.  Since then I’ve remained seated until I see a ‘baby on board’ badge, a pushchair or a walking stick.

I squeeze my way to the area by the doors and finally stop next to an overly nourished builder who is hanging on to the overhead hand rail.  I’m a bit too close to him but I have little choice as we are all sardined in.  I start to feel a bit woozy…  It’s not the heat but the blast zone of this fucker’s alcoholic armpit which is pumping out high levels of Stella Artois smog.  He’s sweating. It’s that boozy, still pissed sweat… a cold sweat.  He’s concentrating deeply on the floor.  I ease back as I’m not keen on the potential splash back should he unload a digested keg of froth and kebab remnants all over the floor.

I’m having a ‘mare here….I’m trapped between a crotch nuzzle and chunder splat…..

I distract myself looking around for oddities…

Sitting down I see an Italian.  He might not be Italian but he strikes me as Italian.  Bald yet well groomed with a goatee and expensive sports casual attire.  He’s engrossed in an iPad but his other hand seems permanently lodged up his nose.  He drilling deep, and he couldn’t care less if we can see him.

I watch him closely as I’m interested in where he might stick the debris.  He’s well into his stride now and has managed to excavate his hooter through five Piccadilly Line stations. I’m surprised his head doesn’t cave in and some lost Chilean miners emerge from the wreckage… It’s worthy of a round of applause and some bubbles…..He’s a fuckin’ animal…

Next up, in my line of sight, I see a regular on a lot of tubes across London.

‘Superdry’ man.  The t-shirt, and coat are liberally covered in Japanese writing embroidered from a Chelmsford factory… It’s rubbish of ‘Hollister’ standards tinged with Abercrombie and Fitch…

Superdry won’t fit me no matter how many zips you add to the coat. I’m the wrong shape. I’m more barrel bomb than precision missile. Superdry seems to be designed for the puny or the happy to wear clothes that don’t fit in the name of coolness brigade… I am not cool…I have never been cool.

Usually accompanying the Superdry ensemble is the miniature, blue (always blue) Adidas bag slung across the body.  What is the purpose of a bag that merely carries a wallet and, potentially, an apple?  To be fair, I carry a rucksack mostly out of habit.  There have been times when the only thing in it is an umbrella so it’s mainly my stupidity that picks it up in the first place.  The miniature bag on a bloke is ludicrous and smacks of low level drug dealer ‘stash’ rather than umbrella and bus pass…

Superdry man is having breakfast on the train.  He’s troughing one of those health biscuits that ‘replace’ breakfast.  Nothing replaces an egg and bacon bap no matter how tasty you claim it is.  This bloke needs carbs quick rather than a dull, cardboard cereal bar.  He looks like he barely has the power to fasten one, let alone a number of bespoke zips on his Essex based Japanese jacket. Hard times for the Cool….

I see a lot of eating on trains and it’s usually the same people doing it.  I’m not certain I’ve ever eaten on a tube train when sober but I’m willing to accept that others have.

There’s a bloke who gets on my evening train, same stop, same seat, same time and he’s always gnawing on a cheese and onion sandwich.  Over the years I’ve seen a builder eat a cold Sunday lunch (including congealed gravy) from a Tupperware box at six in the morning and a ratty haired hippy eat three Weetabix with milk from an oversized mug as well as numerous Polish builders shooting home made whisky in the rush hour at Christmas.

Perhaps it’s some kind of ‘dark web’ sub culture that I’m only just clocking on to, where the cheese and onion sandwich on the 16:43 to Cockfosters indicates a penchant for nailing ones cobblers to a plank. It’s could be the modern day Pampas grass depravity flag.  I might bring a Tuna and sweetcorn sandwich tomorrow just to see if anyone gives me the nod.

I get off the train early as I had enough of the human soup and because my shoes are so comfortable that I enjoy walking in them.  Yes…. I did write that.  I’m old and therefore all about the comfort. These shoes are a dream.

My crazy feet I reluctantly deposit me at a door in an undisclosed location in Central London.  I get the 70’s lift to the 9th floor.  The usual suspects are in, sucking up the overtime in the name of ‘banged out busy’.  This isn’t wholly true and is really an excuse to eliminate mortgages or purchase gadgets.

In the corner sits ‘Ben Nevis’.  Like the mountain it’s a massive, ragged, non moving lump from North of the border where the base is littered with the rubbish of a thousand visitors… Coffee cups, water bottles and food packaging surround it and there is neither the will nor inclination to clear the area in the name of hygiene.

The mountain stirs and spews forth a mockney / scottish ‘Hello mate’ reminiscent of the diminutive, mouth on a stick and one time Bee Gee groupie Lulu.  Like Lulu it’s hard to like this individual as there is a real feeling of falseness oozing from its pores.

I smile and return the greeting and am just glad that I have arrived too late to witness the mountain  chow down on double cheese on toast with onion from the canteen as it’s a messy, smacking, noisy process which turns even the hardest stomach.

Hang on a minute … Cheese + onion + bread = cobblers + nails + plank….

..I put on the forensic gloves and reach for my claw hammer…. I am ready…..are you?

The North.  I’ve had some top times up there and some truly terrible times…

Leeds is an outstanding place if you like pole dancing and transsexual DJ’s taking the piss out of you for dancing to “Baggy Trousers”.  Newcastle is fantastic for politeness, red wine on tap and the world’s largest assortment of sequined ‘Gunts’.  I went to Newcastle once with the Horse and the first thing I saw when leaving the train station was a queue coming out of a ‘Greggs’… it set the tone…

Then there’s Bolton and Wigan.  Wigan is worse than Bolton in my view.  Drab and depressing it offers little in the way of humour or, dare I say it ‘fun’. It is grey.

Sheffield is a lovely City that I’ve spent a lot of time in as Jen’s family are from it however generally I’m not a Northern person… I’m a Londoner and have low tolerance for stranger interaction, whippets, pigeons, lard cakes and coal.

And so I find myself sitting in a car with The Spaniard and Bunny heading North to the beautiful hamlet of Glossop for more two wheeled punishment arranged by the torturer Bunyan on a rocky Peak District trail.  ‘Why?’ you ask, well that’s easy.  Never let pain and temporary disablement get in the way of a great laugh.

For some reason we head off on a Wednesday night.  It’s a bit of a trek and we arrive late to the slight annoyance of the Farmers wife who is providing the accommodation.  We apologise and she shows us to our rooms.  In a stroke of genius Bunny has isolated The Spaniard in his own cell as we can no longer suffer the comedy snoring.  We are not keen to dig a hole on the moors at midnight so it’s best all round that he goes into solitary at night.

We then head out for a few pints to get an idea of the locale.  It’s a recon trip really with no high expectations as tomorrow we ride…

We don’t venture too far and find a purpose built, flat fronted pub.  We walk in and discover that it’s a chrome and neon tribute to New Orleans Jazz.   Normally we’d be out the door in a flash but time marches on and we need watering.

We sit down and my associates start talking to some yokels about the local nightlife in preparation of our assault on it tomorrow night.  Bunny and the Spaniard excel at this stuff.  I’m not as accommodating with strangers and particularly ones outside of the M25 as my default position is to tell people to ‘fuck off’.  Bun and the Spaniard are different.  I don’t know anyone who dislikes them whereas some members of my own family don’t like me much…. No matter… their loss.

We sinks a few pints and Bun reckons he knows the score for the following night so we return to the farmhouse to sleep…perchance to dream.

We wake early and are fed mostly animal pieces by the farmer’s wife.  She’s not a young woman and looks hardened to a Glossop winter.  She strikes me as the type of women who could happily castrate a goat while baking some bread.

We head off to tackle the Peak District which the Devil describes as a ‘piece of piss’.  We don’t believe him but it turns out he was telling the truth.  We have a glorious day tackling the mountains with no real problems at all.  We are hardened from our one other trip and this is a lovely ride around with few problems.

We’re out for a few hours and the legs and internal organs are standing up well.  We descend a hill on a sweeping tarmac road directly next to Coniston Water.  It’s a lovely, chilly, sunny afternoon and as we reach a corner a stone built pub appears as if planted there by Jeebus himself.  Naturally we stop to refresh ourselves in the cool sun.

We spend the rest of the day acting professionally and cycling about until we follow the road back through stunning scenery to the car and a journey back to the farm.  We have the taste for beer.

We get back and the farmer’s wife appears happier to see us.  She’s seems used to us cockney scum now, either that or she’s lined up a ‘Straw Dogs’ style beasting at midnight and is lulling us into a false sense of security.

“..Going out in t’town tonight lads?” she says through farmer’s wife teeth where her tongue looks like a prisoner.

“..Indeed you aged and toothless old Northern Crone..” says I…

“..It is our intention to avail ourselves of Ale and vittles’ at any one of a number of the humble hostelries in the town centre. Can you recommend one that will provide the necessary sustenance delivered by a buxom, accommodating, rosy cheeked Glossop lass?”

Clearly I’m paraphrasing for comedic affect.  The reality was more “Yeah…. Now fuck off and leave me alone”… y’know?  The traditional London greeting.

Bun tells her we are heading off after we’ve showered and she gives him a key and cackles a disturbing cackle.  I look at the Spaniard who is adopting full rat face while licking his lips and twitching his nose…. He’s got the taste… Glossop could be in trouble.

We set out from the farm to walk into town. It’s a damp, dark night with a slight misty hint.  We spot a traditional looking boozer in the near distance.  There’s a warm glow to it and it looks promising.  We get to the door and I pull the handle.  I step inside and stop as there’s another internal door presumably to keep the heat in…. I look down and then I see it.

On the mat between the doors is a fully loaded condom.  It’s like a used piping bag.  We all stop and soak up this vision.  We all look at each other in silence and then look at it again.  To me it looks fresh and I’m tempted to touch it in order to assess its warmth.  I don’t actually touch it but my mind tends to work like this when I’m in shock…I need all the information to really believe it. We seem to have been in the doorway quite a while now and so in order to move things along I push on, stepping over this tribute to the cockneys, clearly left by a frantic local, to enter the Saloon bar.

We’re in… It looks bleak.

A lone barman sits on a stool by the bar top flap.  It looks empty from this side but there’s a Rive Gauche whiff of life from the other side of the bar.  The barman approaches.  He looks ex-military, wiry and brutal…

“..Are you t’London lads?”  He says…

“…Yes mate…” I say, hitting maximum London.  It would appear the whole town knows who we are. It’s chilling and I start eyeing up table legs and ashtrays as makeshift weapons.  In my distracted moment the Spaniard steps forward and smooches the Bar Oaf to death as only he can until the bloke is eating out the palm of his hand.  I’m lead away by Bunny…

We sit down to plan the night.  Bunny’s work on the locals the previous night has revealed a nightclub and a curry house that we must go to.  It’s hard to imagine that this shithole has a ‘must see’ venue but we are here so intend to live the dream.

After a few pints it’s evident that men are at a premium in this pub, in fact we appear to be it.  I look about and feel that the assembled ‘females’ are a bit overly done up with a lot of flesh on show for a Thursday night in a low level pub in a low level town.

The Spaniard returns with another round and informs us that the barman has told him that Thursday night is ‘Ladies night’.

“He seems to think we are in luck” says the Spaniard…. We all stop and look about the pub.  It’s a skin and bone car crash. We’re only lucky if we have deliberately travelled here to breed with the offerings in this place.  There’s a lot of silver based skimpy clothing, heavy blue eye make-up and everyone seems to be older than us.  They all smoke, smell of cheap perfume and drink vodka with ham hock arms and mottled ‘cankles’.  It’s no surprise to us that the men are elsewhere, most likely teetering on the edge of chairs with their belts around their necks.  Bunny surveys the scene… His face says ‘I have a dogshit under my nose’… no one from London in this pub is impressed.

We drink up and move on to a groan of sequined disappointment.

By the time we decide to take on the night club we are nicely alight.  It’s only about nine o’clock but we need a new angle and slight break from the guzzling.  We’ve been to a few similar pubs and its all very samey so the inevitable comedy of a Glossop nightclub is needed.

We approach a neon lit building we are told is the place.  It’s called ‘Prohibitions’ or ‘Aces’ or something equally naff like that.  On the door we are confronted by a shaved gorilla dressed in black.  He’s a big boy with a goatee and an earpiece with curly cable disappearing into his collar.  He got that mark of real quality on his arm…. The Bouncer Brotherhood card.  He’s friendly in that ‘don’t fuck me about or you’re dead’ kind of way and after looking us up and down and checking through the door he allows us through to the darkness of club.  It’s £3.50 to enter which should be all the warning we needed to turn around and leave £3.50 up.

Inside the place is ‘Banging’.  I believe this is the correct term as my experience of clubs is usually looking after the coats and drinks while ripping the piss out of the monsters at a ‘rock’ night in Camden.  The music is loud, the DJ is giving it plenty and the lights are swirling around.  The walls, adorned with zebra pattern wallpaper, are dripping in condensation due to the heat in the place. The barman is visible in silhouette only and is spinning bottles like Tom Cruise in the 80’s. The place is on fire… there’s only one problem…

..We are the only punters here…

There’s me, Bun, The Spaniard, a DJ, a Barman and a mirror ball.  There’s a hint of movement in a booth by the wall but it could be vermin or worse some ‘ladies’ on the bespoke night out.  Whatever it is it’s not looking for interaction which is a good thing.  We can’t even fall back on chatting to each other due to the level of the volume whacked up to enhance the dulcet tones of ‘Yazz’ from ten years previous.  After one bottle we leave.

We pass the gorilla on exit and he’s chipper.

“Dern’t wurry lads… I’ll remember your ferces… cum back anytime lerter and you can go straight through…no extra charge…”

Fantastic….. a freebie to a hell hole…. He knows we’ll be back…We know we’ll be back….

En route to another Pub, the Spaniard drags us I into the previously mention best Curry House in Glossop. Bob politely engages with a very small, sleepy waiter to book a table for later when the drinking is done.  The waiter looks shifty and surveys the empty restaurant.  He’s clearly working out where he can squeeze us in later.  The Spaniard books us a table and we go for one last mini session to close off the evening.

When we leave the final pub we are well oiled but starving hungry.  We head back to the curry house via the club with the free entry.  The Gorilla nods at us on the way like we are regulars and in and we head through the gloom to the dance floor…

The place is still ‘Banging’… the DJ is knocking out ‘Ride on time’ at a ferocious volume and the barman is engaged in conversation with three hefty lumps at the bar in dresses.   I look about and count the crowd.

Six punters including us.

Worryingly the three lumps have noticed us three.  It’s a 1:1 ratio in their heads but judging by the forearms of the first one she’s a three man job and we are unlikely to win.  We are their ticket out of this place.  We bolt for the door and head to for a curry all the while hearing the Gorilla letting us know that we can come back later for free….

We get to the curry house just after 2330 hours… The Spaniard is already embarrassed by our lateness and so is preparing humbleness on a grand scale.  We pile in expecting to be told its over and wake up the waiter…. It’s empty.  I’m not sure they’ve cooked anything here tonight but we appreciate him remaining open for us.

We sit down and he’s all over us.  The Indian beer arrives with the menus.  I look around the table. We are a mess.  The Spaniard is all mouth open with his glasses on the end of his nose with occasional of Rat face traces.  Bunny is at the raised eyebrow, trying to focus stage and I know I’m adopting the punch up face.  I only have two drunk faces.  ‘Punch up’ or ‘Happy Moron’ but as I can feel no smiling I assume it’s the former.

We survey the menu.  In a box to the bottom under ‘Specialities’ it says ‘The Golden Special’.

‘Three Golden Specials and pillau?’ says Bun…. We all nod in agreement, too pissed and too hungry too argue.  The Cobra flows and the chefs peer out from the kitchen like we are royalty.  We are loud…loud but friendly.

The food arrives.  It’s a murky brown lump of stuff.  It’s at this point that I’m wondering what meat is involved in the sludge… it might have been a better idea to have sussed this first.  I receive my gruel and roll a spoon through it.  It is meaty.  That’s good.  It’s a dark meat which indicates Lamb but hang on, that was white meat and clearly chicken.  Two meats? …Sweet Jeebus…A prawn!!  This won’t end well.

Bow down before ‘The Golden Special’.

Lamb, Chicken and Prawn in an unctuous heavily spiced ‘rocketing shits’ based gravy.  I dive in, too hungry to care about the consequences in the morning…

We all lap it up and thank the waiter with a heavy London tip… we have no class. His handshakes says ‘Friends for life’ but he’ll forget us before the cash enters the till.  We head back to the farm and collapse in our beds.

I wake late to the smell of the farm…. But it’s not the farm.  It’s us.  We are in a bit of bother here.  I make it to the toilet which Bunny has just left… There ain’t no 15 minute waiting time here.  Desperate times mean desperate measures and I’m in with Bun’s fug.  Waking up when I did was a good idea as my brain had issued the command of ‘everyone out’ and timer was rolling.

After a challenging 20 minutes I crawl from the kharzki… I look at Bunny lying on the bed in a sheen of sweat.   ‘Hot Brown Dulux?’ Says I.  He shamefully nods like I’ve suggested a cuddle.  ‘Are you capable of driving back?’, He issues another nod.

The Spaniard joins us.  He’s unusually pale for a man from the Med.  He’s oozing a face that has delivered three litres of Galaxy Hot Chocolate to the sewer.  We are brothers bonded by mud….

We pack up and head away much to the relief of the window opening farmer’s wife.  She’ll burn those mattresses…they are no longer fit for purpose.

The drive back is hilariously teenage.  We stop on several occasions just for fumigation purposes. Glossop has brought us to our knees, we will never return.

I still wonder how warm that condom was….

… You may recall that I was standing before a mountain looking down at my mate Bunny untangle his feet from his fancy pedals. He looks sheepish and smirky.  The Spaniard and I look like two punters who have sussed out a magician.  There’s no turning back so we decide to start the ascent again.

Bunny heads off and this time he’s beaten the initial slope and is into his snake hip stride.  The Spaniard and I are falling back at this early stage which is distressing.  I notice that Bunny’s feet are pedalling quicker than mine and suddenly realised that I have gears.  The right gear seems like a good idea and so I click the toggle and it gets easier.  Easier… it’s all relative right?

My heart is close to explosion and we’ve only gone 500 yards.   Just so you know I am better on a bike than this but this 500 yards has been directly up and on loose earth. I look ahead and see no top to this incline and start dreaming of a hospital bed in my exhausted delirium but I battle on. I briefly look behind me to see The Spaniard in full ‘rat face’ mode.  He’s breathing heavy and snorting through the nose but he’s in control and in better shape than me.

Bunny is gone… flash bastard… he’s over the horizon with the laminated map.  He’s probably resting at the top or perhaps engaging in push ups for pleasure.  The Spaniard passes me before the plateau at which point I regret drinking ever and promise to never do it again.

At the top I find Bunny sitting down waiting.  He has the waiting face on.  The Spaniard is bent double breathing heavy and I arrive in what can only be described as a crash.  I throw the bike to the floor and dry heave. Bun looks disgusted and rightly so.  I was a mere 29 at this point and should have been in my prime.  I was in fact a drunken shell of a man.

It takes a good 15 minutes of recovery time before we move on.  We still aren’t on the down slope but it’s less ‘up’ which I see as key to survival at this point.

We cycle on and my body starts to adjust.  I no longer feel as though I will fill my Lycra with the equivalent of 2lbs of mashed Dundee cake through a loss of control.  I start to feel a slight moment of freewheeling indicating a change in gradient which raises my spirit.

“Here we Go!” shouts Bunny over his shoulder “This is what it’s all about”…  We start the first descent.

It’s not a huge drop but it means speed is upon us.  Ahead of me Bunny adopts the position of a speed racer and zooms off. He knows his stuff… he once purchase ‘Professional Mountain Bike Wanker Monthly’.

We hit speed and quickly reach the bottom of the drop which goes straight into another incline so I decide to change gear and pedal in order to lighten the oncoming burden and maintain the upward momentum.

Ahead I’ve spotted a deep pothole at the base of the drop but Bunny hasn’t…. this could be bad.  He hits the pothole at full tilt and is thrown from the bike. His super cool shoe pedals detach and he disappears into a bush.  The Spaniard and I race past the fully kitted out heap with camel pack suction tube flapping in the wind…. We cheer, laugh and scream ‘fuck you Bunyan, Fuck you!!’ in the most brazen act of Schadenfruder every seen on this hillock.  He could be dead… we don’t care… he is The Devil…The Spaniard and I are ahead for the first time without the fabled laminated map which we are too stupid to control.

The Spaniard and I sit at the next natural stop.  We gorge on energy bars like two 15 year old girls locked in a bedroom cupboard with a box of chocolates and a bucket.  Bun won’t like this gorging as he’s marked power bar stops on the timetable in his head and this is unscheduled and unwarranted.

He arrives dishevelled… Not fully so as I’ve never seen him that way but partially rumpled.  The Spaniard and I adopt our waiting faces….The worms have turned, we have the upper hand temporarily, we’ll milk this puppy till he next destroys us.  We move on and it’s clear that the initial climb was worth it as we now only wind up slowly which is something even I can cope with.

We start racking up the miles with no major disasters until we come to what looks like a tarmac road descending almost out of sight through a wood.  Bunny informs us that this is the big one.  The full speed drop.  I look at the Spaniard and he looks worried.  It’s been evident throughout that he’s been at the back on the few downhill races so far.  No matter we are on the edge of the reason we are here.  I’m up for it and so is Bun.

I dispense with the helmet and put on a rather fetching baseball cap as I’ve decided that if I crash and fly through the air I will adopt a comedy star shape and cooler hat rather than look all flappy limbed with a dome head as I embed myself in a tree… No one wants to see that…. I’m considering the public here…

Bun sets off.  My God he looks good from behind…he’s all sleek.  Me and the Spaniard look like we are wearing bin linings by comparison, no wonder we are slow… Well that and the tonnage…

It’s a sweeping tarmac route through the wood but it’s quite steep so you pick up some serious pace. I’m in the slipstream of Bunny but it’s too dangerous to check behind me to see how the Spaniard is getting on.  I assume that if he had crashed I’d have heard it.

It’s an exhilarating blast and I reach the bottom at roughly the same time as Bunny.  There’s no sign of the Spaniard…. It could be over for him.  We wait what seems like an age and I half expect a single flaming wheel to roll down the hill towards us as a sign of an explosive end but nothing comes.

And then a noise….tyres on tarmac in the distance followed by the vision of the Spaniard juddering towards us sedately in an on/off brake pumping manner.  His helmet is positioned on the back of his head like the hat on that talentless ponce from Curiosity Killed the Cat.  The chin strap appears to be strangling the Spaniard and his eyes are streaming and bulging.

After we stop laughing he explains that half way down the force of the air in his face pushed the helmet backwards like a head parachute as he hadn’t tightened the strap before take-off.  As he was going fast (an unverified boast) he couldn’t stop and just went with it, accepting his strangulation while hoping that he would reach the end before losing consciousness.  For the record I saw no signs of arousal and there was no whiff of tangerines.

Every downhill means an uphill and the next one was massive and took some time.  By the time we reached the top we were all shattered but I was in a mess.  We met some more professional cyclists at the top and I was overly friendly with them in a ‘pissed bloke on a night bus’ way due to a lack of oxygen in my body.  We have a friendly chat and I tell one of them that I love his ‘see-through’ bike.  He looks confused and humours me before riding off.

“Lovely Perspex bike eh Bunny?” I say to the Devil.

“What you talking about?” he says.

I get irate and explain that the bike we just saw the pro’s on was made of a see-through material.  Bunny sits me down and explains that the bike we saw was chrome and the leg I could see through it was merely a reflexion of the nearest leg to me…

….I have been taken by the Delirium….We stop for a while and consume water.

We finally move off and discover a bespoke technical section which Bun explains is a bit like 80’s TV classic ‘Kick Start’.  As it takes us downwards we decide to give it a go.  The key apparently is to lock your back wheel and almost skid the whole way.  Failing to do this results in gaining speed and the gradient is too great for idiots like us. The back wheel lock is essential and Bun can’t stress that enough.

As usual Bunny leads the way and soon disappears leaving the Spaniard and I trying to work it out.

“Watch me Bob” I say… “It’s easy”…

I start the descent, pull the wrong brake leaver and go over the handlebars sideways down a brambled slope.  The Spaniard knows that if he laughs I’m likely to smash him to pieces so he tentatively asks if I’m ok… I piss myself laughing… It’s ok… he can now laugh.

He then gives it a go and we get the same result but crucially he loses his specs in the fall.  Without glasses the Spaniard may as well be underwater with his eyes open… They must be found.  Luckily he was in the ‘Biggins’ phase and we find them after 10 minutes of laughing and searching.

We finally reach the bottom where Bunny is waiting dismissively shaking his head.  He thinks we are fools but we are way ahead of him… we’re idiots…

All that is left now is a final tarmac road push back to the car and the escape from Mount Doom.

We get back to Looney HQ starving and battered.  All the other cyclists look clean and fit. We look like death is upon us.

We head to the room to shower and clean up before dinner.  It’s at this point that I notice that my gusset area is extremely tender.  I examine myself in the shower and note that my arse is bruised black from the pounding of the saddle.  I feel dirty.  I leave the shower and see my associates examining each other in a similar fashion… we are all pounded… It’s like a Centurion bathhouse…

Starving and ready for beer we head downstairs to the dining room and bar.  Mountain men are everywhere and we notice a small area set up for live entertainment where a lone Bontempi keyboard and a microphone sit.  We ignore this for now as we need food and this madhouse seems to specialise in curry.

There are only three curries available on the menu and no other food.  Korma, Madras and Vindaloo.  If you finish the Vindaloo you get a plastic medal of achievement.  Bunny and I decide that our arses have had enough damage for one day and go for the Korma.  The Spaniard is no such shirker… he’s in for the Vindaloo… He is one of this country’s finest citizens… he stands alone for London and England.

We sit and eat and the Spaniard sweats and breathes heavy.  He looks like he’s had a hefty smash to the mouth but he won’t be beaten, he’s a spice God who wants a plastic medal.  Inevitably he succeeds and finishes looking like a ‘Top Gear’, mouth breathing audience member at which point we retire to the ‘bar’.

The bar is small and has those fucking annoying 70’s bar tables that are at shin height.  Dark wood, Double Diamond ashtrays and damp beer mats are everywhere.  Due to limited choice we have to drink Stella.  None of us drink this normally but we bank on it killing the arse pain.  Everyone in this bar looks like they’ve had a harsh winter except us. We look like three dazzling young urbanites who thought they could do extreme sports and failed.  We are not the fresh meat they are after..

In the corner of the bar next to the makeshift stage on a high stool sits a hippy chick.  She’s respectable but could probably do with a long shower.  She has no business in this Welsh ‘Prancing Pony’ filled with Rangers and Hobbits.

We are then introduced to the evening’s entertainment.  In walks a rather scruffy tramp in a black velvet jacket.  He reeks of Silk Cut.  He’s a big lump with very dry ratty hair reminiscent of a dismantled Afro.  Droopy eyes adorn the ruddy face and below the corned beef ball nose he has the classic Tom Selleck ‘tache.  He has a great stage name like ‘Johnny Tweedy’ or ‘ Duncan Bourneville’  but I can’t recall it exactly.

He starts the show with ‘Saturday Nights alright for fighting’…. Just a tramp, a microphone and a low level Argos keyboard.  He’s belting it out and becomes truly magnificent with every pint we sink.  ‘Hey Jude’, ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’, ‘White Wedding’, ‘Wonderwall’.. you name it he can nail it.  The bar is rocking and even the mountain men are sombrely bobbing.

He completes the set and after a break where he sinks large Bushmills like R Whites he starts again.

“Any requests?”  He says in a Brummie accent.

I’m in. “Do you know Van Halen?”  I barely finish the sentence and he’s all over the keyboard intro…

“NEXT!!” he screams….

“The Who”… BOOM!! He knocks out the intro to “Won’t get Fooled again”…

“NEXT!!” he spits…. It’s hopeless, He’s a genius…

The hippy chick turns out to be his wife. I’m convinced there is some kind of Stockholm syndrome scenario happening here because they can’t really be together.  She’s brought to the microphone and knocks out “Running up that Hill” by Kate Bush with the voice of an Angel.  It’s a marriage made in Heaven and Hell.

The last bell rings and we head to bed happy.  We crawl up the stairs and even sleep through the Spaniard’s nasal assault.

We wake early and all appear to have become disabled in our sleep…we back up, thank our hosts and head back to sanity…

“Never Again Bun” I squeak from the back seat…

“How do you fancy the Peak District?…. could be a laugh..” says the Devil Bunyan…

I see The Spaniard’s wide eyes and smiling rat face in the mirror…

“We’re in..”

Now there’s a story…..

A week off in the name of God.

A magnificent spring day of blue skies, bright sunshine and a cool comfortable breeze.  Time to get the bike out.  I’m not a prolific cyclist even though I like to claim to be. The main reason is I’m not too keen on finding myself wrapped around the wheels of a skip lorry cutting a corner so won’t ride the mean streets of London.  I love a bit of ‘off road’…. Easy now.. I’m talking about cycling.

It was different as a kid.  London was less scary in the late 70’s and early 80’s and as street kids the bike was your car.  You went everywhere on it without the fear of death or worse, theft of the precious machine.  Your biggest worry was a puncture.

I had all the classics.  ‘Chippy’, ‘Tomahawk’, ‘Grifter’… outstanding stuff.  My brother, who I believe smiled once in about 1977 during a BBQ for the Jubilee, had the fabled ‘Chopper’.  He was never worthy of that beast…

The Grifter was the one.  The bike of my prime, made from cast iron with a hard foam seat and the legendary throttle gears making the wheelie a dangerous, involuntary gear change, mid-air testicle crusher if you were capable of lifting the bike.  I received a Grifter for my 10^th birthday and rode around like Peter Fonda, all swagger and cobblers as If I ran the streets.  I never saw anyone else on one.  I was a God. I was “The Grifter God”.

One summer day I’m cruising about and I stumble onto an estate I’m unfamiliar with where I’m confronted with a flash bastard also on a Grifter.  Fucker.  I’m 10, he’s taking the piss and needs to be crushed.  I’m The Grifter God and he is nothing. He’s clearly unaware of who I am…he needs to get learned..

In the finest traditions of this kingdom I challenge him to a duel… a duel by speed.  We shall race.  No words are spoken but we see a lamp post up the road and we both know the score… calf power will win the day and the loser must melt their beast down for tank parts.

Off we go… he’s doing alright but I have Irish legs which are unbreakable and contribute about 65% of my body weight… this should cause no significant problems.

At half way I start the push.  I still recall thinking that we were very close to each other handlebar wise and inevitably we clash bars.  This results in the pair of us becoming airborne while the bikes fuse together as one giant Grifter with the weight of a car below us.

I hit the concrete face first with my hands by my sides like a drunk that has passed out and fallen over…The definitive ‘reverse arm death’. I then proceed to slide face first on the concrete for what seemed like a mile.  When I finally grind to a halt I have a friction burn along my nose and cheek, the knuckles of my hands are bleeding and my knee is a gaping bloodied hole.

He is in no better shape.  For some strange reason we embrace, all snot, blood and tears, as if to appreciate each other’s efforts.  We untangle the twisted wreckage and make our way to our separate homes bleeding…. It was a defining moment… I was a man… I had face death etc. The Grifter and I were one.. We had bled together and conquered the fear of the crash, nothing could stop us…. Except Adam and the Ants… That killed it…

Years later I acquired a BMX, purchased for a sweaty wad of cash from a future Commonwealth athlete at the back of the Rainbow in Finsbury Park.  My mother assured me it was a legitimate transaction and re spraying it immediately was what everyone did when purchasing a bike under these circumstances.  I didn’t care… red, blue, it didn’t matter I just needed a machine I could bunny hop on and wear a motorbike helmet like a pre Bulldog Bash Eddie Kidd.

In your late teens the bike goes out the window and you look for a more comfortable ride with less potential mess… and I’m not talking about a car…

After all the trauma of women in the late 80’s and mid 90’s I found myself sitting with a hangover in the company of The Spaniard and Bunny. This was not an unusual scenario at the time and usually happened on the floor of the Spaniard’s flat following Rioja and Cheese for 12 hours.  They are talking mountain bikes and we get around to planning a trip away.  I have no bike at this point but I don’t tell them that…. I can sense adventure.

As expected Bunny has all the kit.  He’s got the great bike, the clothes, shoes that connect to the invisible pedals, the shades, he has the laminated map and crucially he’s got the body… he’s sleek like a panther, lithe and bender…

The Spaniard and I could be in trouble here.  We are built for comfort not speed, we are about power not endurance, we love rouge and offal not Fizz and fruit…. It will be challenging.  On the upside The Spaniard has run a marathon and I have the Irish legs…. Unfortunately he also likes a Marathon and I also have the Irish body.  In years to come The Spaniard and I would drunkenly use the services of a rickshaw in Edinburgh to go to a curry house 500 yards away.  The driver, a skinny cyclist, asked us to get out of the thing so he could get it off the pavement prior to departure.  When we arrived the driver, who we subjected to screams of “Faster, Faster Fucker” throughout the journey, couldn’t speak through exhaustion…. £2 was the fare but as we were cocky cockney’s we gave him a twenty…. Pathetic… him not us…

We convince each other that mountain biking must surely involve alcohol at some point and so we sign up… Snowdonia is the destination and Bunny assures us that the track is relatively flat so we should be alright.  ‘Trust me’ he says….

After spending £120 of equipment I don’t need, including waterproof socks and borrowing a bike from my not smiled since the 70’s brother which I never return to him we load up the car and head off to Welsh Wales.  It’s a Friday night and we know we’ll be late arriving as everyone in London is trying to escape.

It’s a long drive and we only stop once in Gloucester for a bag of chips.  We park the car and head to the town centre which appears to be deserted other than for a toothless oaf with a laminated ‘Big Issue’.  There’s literally no one else about on an early evening Friday night in the town except fast food sellers.  We get a bag of chips and sit in the car eating in silence.

The Spaniard breaks the silence. “Gloucester”… he says…

Bunny and I wait for a pearl of wisdom for he’s a very intelligent, well-read man….will it be about the rich culture and history of this Cathedral City?  Will it be architectural? Or will it simply be Doctor Foster related?..

“Shithole…. Well Done”…. He starts the car and we speed out in silence, history is behind us  and now we have some welsh business. It’ll be my first visit to the land of the Dragon since the Lampeter weekender where Bun put me in a room with a public schoolboy in transition and the Toilet of Doom.

We arrive in Llantrydd Wells late. It smacks of The League of Gentleman.  It’s dark and we only have time to unload the bikes and grab a couple of swift beers in the bar which contains Welsh mountain men with few teeth and a healthy hate for the English.  We laugh loudly and nervously and as we don’t die we reckon we’ll be alright.

We sleep in a three bed room on the second floor and it’s the first time I experience the Spaniard’s snoring which is truly impressive.  It’s almost impossible to believe that he could sleep through it such is the volume.  Years later on a stag night in Galway, we shared a room in the plush Railway Hotel on Eyre Square.  On that occasion the snoring was so bad that I hovered over him with a pillow and contemplated a mercy smothering…but that’s another story…

As is the Englishman’s right we ignore all the ‘early start’ shit and wake up late for a fry up.  A day on the bike is ahead and so like pro’s we see fuelling up as the best option.  The hotel is empty and devoid of other mountain bikers who have done the right thing and left early.

I’m hanging around the lobby in all my lycra.  I look magnificent and wish that I had been the lead singer of an 80’s metal band as I’m finding the fabric ludicrously comfortable and the padded gusset is like a dream come true.  Bunny and the Spaniard appear.  The three of us look like Van Halen in 1982, all skin tight and lumpy crotches with a whiff of alcohol.

Bunny then takes me into an area off the dining room to show me something.  It appears that he has booked us in to the headquarters of the Monster Raving Loony Party the week after Lord Sutch has died. Pictures of Loonies adorn the walls.  It’s an Omen… horror on the mountain awaits…. I’m hearing duelling banjoes and squealing pigs.  I look at The Spaniard for support but he’s smiling manically and has dried the inside of his upper lip to expose Rabbit teeth… he loves a challenge… he’s mental..

We load up and drive to our destiny.

We arrive at the start of the track and the place is banged out with what look like professionals.  We look wrong, well The Spaniard and I look wrong.  Bunny is oozing ‘locked back wheel technical descent’ while the pair of us look like two kidnapped drunks being forced to cycle for the sake of their health.

It was at this point that Bunny pulls out the laminated map.  He informs us that he’s decided that we aren’t doing the fabled ‘Red Bull Run’ which I was told is a 12 mile fast pace speed ride.  ‘Thank fuck for that’ says I.  I temporarily relax.  He continues… we are attempting the 26 mile long ride up the mountain with limited descents …

The Spaniard and I look at each other… I become Fletcher Christian, The Spaniard is a disgruntled Smee but Bunny is Captain Bligh of the Bounty… a filthy bastard of a man. Mutiny is imminent.

‘Don’t panic’ He says in a way only he can ‘I’ll lead’…. No shit… the two man 28 stone combo behind him is unlikely to be overtaking him anytime soon.

We position our machines… Bunny is on point, I am second and The Spaniard has our back.  I look ahead and all I see is mountain…

‘Ready?’ Says Bunny… we utter no words and simply nod and weep.  We are Sam and Frodo at the Black Gate and all hope is lost.

Bun pedals off professionally, all hips out of the saddle but after 15 feet he loses momentum on the slope and falls off as he’s forgotten his pedals are connected to his shoes…we look down at him in heap…

….We. Are. Fucked….

Bunny… my best mate, my Captain, my Hero, my Grim reaper….The Devil Rides out…

…To be continued…..

Justice.  A tiny word but a powerful one.  It resonates globally.  We all want justice….we want what is right.  It’s a basic right of the people…

I’ve just witnessed justice get a good shoeing.  Months in a room of highly paid public, jowly schoolboys wearing wigs only to find that the 12 random, normal people are thicker than suspected and acquit the bad guys. Even the jokers awaiting their fate look shocked and the Big Wig just slumps in his chair..

Hmmm… an analogy of the magnitude of the error might be required.

This isn’t the actual scenario or indeed anything remotely close to it as any specifics discussed on here would be highly unprofessional but it will give you a flavour of the stupidity of the situation…

• Man walks into a bank with a shotgun.  He walks up to the cashier and blows her head off.  He then empties the till and leaves after writing his name and address on a piece of paper which he leaves on the matter splattered counter top.  He looks up at the CCTV points at his face and says “It’s me… I’ve left a note”.  Polis read note and cruise round to the address.  The door is open and they find the man counting the bloodied money.  Polis get the man to court where the chosen 12 insist he didn’t do it and say he can keep the money. Man leaves with his liberty intact to commit more crimes and spend filthy lucre.

Thirteen years I’ve been doing this stuff and this is the worst professional defeat. I can take defeat, I’ve lost lots of stuff in real life and generally you move on but this is different. The dim appear to be in charge.

Anyway…there’s always another bad guy and another jury….so, from 12 idiots to one special Oaf in three Oafs I encountered in a crowd of 60,000…

For my sins I attend a soulless concrete football stadium on a regular basis to witness millionaires ponce about in order to fall over a lot.  I love it.  It’s a hilarious all day event and on some occasions the actual football is peripheral to the laugh to be had.  Don’t get me wrong, I love football… I always have and I always will but it’s never going to ruin my day…. Unless we lose to the runt club of London wearing Blue…

Match day starts in a fantastic Irish public house en route to the ground. Best Guinness in London without doubt.  This is where I meet the mature art student I attend with.   We play a game where we try to beat each other to the pub.  I’ve never been one for drinking alone but I quite like the quiet half pint before we meet up… it’s calming.

This precious moment is shattered by some random Irishman who decides that he wants a chat with me about some woman he knows.  He decides to tell me that he has a date later and would I like to see a photo. I decide to humour him even though I was brought up to tell strangers to ‘fuck off’ and let him show me the photo reel on his phone which contains a rather graphic photo of his brother having sex with a Brazilian woman he met on holiday….hmmm… I know…. It could be anyone and he sounds like a nut nut but I’m killing time and he clearly assumes he’s in a Galway bar where you speak to strangers in that twinkly eyed Irish way.

I let him ramble on about a brothel he uses locally until he crosses the English line by attempting to pay for the Guinness I’ve ordered for myself.  I stop him there and inform him that we aint in Dublin and he aint my mate. He moves away…. Harsh maybe but this is London… we are animals.

My associate arrives and we remain at the bar to sink another couple of pints in the shadow of the Irishman who’s itching for interaction… we speak no more.

We head to the ground 25 minutes before the off.  The walk takes us past a travellers wedding dress shop directly opposite a pub of such poncitude that I refuse to be seen in it.  It serves East European beer in tall glasses and you need a beard or a record bag to enter.  If a building needed a good shoeing this would be it.

We get to the ground and head straight to our seats.  I’ve had the same seat for nine years and so know everyone around us.  They are all good people and we are lucky that they have a good knowledge of the game as being surrounded by idiots would test me.

Behind me are the two Johns.  They know their stuff,  particularly John #1.  Next to them is a guy who sings with the gusto of a man used to knocking out hymns prior to delivering some new age sermon.  To look at him you’d never think a song was in him.  He’s neat and tidy in a “local church helper slays nine” kind of way but I imagine some kind of pampas grass effort is going on in his front garden where new neighbours are encouraged to enjoy his wife.  He’s perfectly polite so what he does in his own house is his business.

Directly next to me is a bank of five seats which are filled with the same blokes 80% of the time.  The other 20% of the time I get to share the game with some two-bob randomites.  It’s two minutes before kick-off and the seats next to me are empty.  This is the ultimate sign that a bunch of strokers will be sitting next to me at any moment.

Randomites tend to drink until the last minute…They also leave at half time to drink again and stay after the whistle to applaud, chant and sometimes boo.  To a randomite it’s a singular day out and they will relish it the max.  They take lots of selfies which prove they are in the ground and look around in shock when the regulars don’t involve themselves enough for their liking.

…Here they come…. Three of them… 19 years old and covered in colours…  Oafs… Not THE Oaf…he’s in the North Bank being Oafy….just random, everyday Oaffage…

Oaf #1 strides down the row.  Cocky, puny, wispy ‘not old enough yet’ beard, skinny jeans tucked into BK Knights high tops… He also has that massive hole earring in both ears.  The type you could get your finger in to gain his attention… this crosses my mind but I’m distracted by his mate…

Oaf #2 appears… he’s the least problematic at present.  Retro shirt from an era he wouldn’t remember, longish hair and once again the obligatory beard only this time it’s mostly neck orientated.  He’s wearing ‘no arse’ jeans and skater shoes…. He speaks in a ludicrously high pitched voice for a bearded individual… I’m thinking Barry Gibb so he will cause no significant issues.

…and then I see it… moving to the seat directly to next to mine… I sense John #1 behind me smile as he knows this will be a challenging 90 minutes for me…

Oaf #3 lumbers his way towards me.   He’s a good 17 stone and is wearing the latest shirt with ‘Alexis’ on the back.  He’s a big old unit but the sight of a thick bright orange mop of hair calms me as I never find that intimidating.  He’s a pale boy…almost translucent and sickly but freckly with ginger eyelashes and yellow teeth… He plonks himself down next to me but immediately stands up to applaud his heroes as they enter the arena.  I reckon there’ll be a lot of up/down action which generally gets up my snotbox.

I look at John #1… he’s smirking and then laughing… He’ll love this, he’s a dirty rotter.  I turn to the mature Art student.  He’s known me a good 28 years and he knows that this is my Hell… He loves my pain… Schadenfreude-tastic…..

We all settle in and the ref starts the match which seems to be the cue for this triumvirate of stupidity to stand and start a chant.  They are up at an alarming speed, arms extended in a V skyward. They sing something offensive about a team from Middlesex who don’t even count let alone deserve my ‘hate’.  They finish this standing rant and immediately sit as one…. It’s got practice written all over it.

I’m close to Oaf #3 so I sit back and study the subject.

He’s a big old lump for a boy.  Wide yet squidgy… I’d imagine after three pints of piss poor cider he’d be a handful. This kids head is big… a big ginger head.  He appears to be constantly smirking, slightly drooling and partially giggling under his breath.  I always find the hands say a lot.  He seems to be short a knuckle on his thumb… hmmm… this is a new one and is bound to cause a serious issue when engaged in using rudimentary tools.  He ain’t no brain surgeon so he could be in trouble.

I look down the wrist and see the sign of ultimate filth…The rotting festival bracelet.  This plum has six or seven of these festering on his tree trunk wrist.  I notice that they are frayed a bleached and state ‘Void if Removed’ an instruction that he has taken literally as if removal will mean death or even worse, dull normality.  At least he’s young.  These things on anyone over 17 should mean instant incarceration or a swift open hand slap to the cheek.

On the inside of his other arm he has a poor tattoo which says ‘Alexis’ surrounded by wonky stars.  It’s a weak tattoo with blurred edges rather than clean lines… There’s nothing wrong with tattoos but there is something pretty thick about having the name of a player forever cut into your arm when he’s unlikely to be around in 3 years and has only played 25 matches.  His only out of this faux pas is to track down a willing or sedated women with this name to spend the rest of his life with but judging by the drooling grin this seems a long shot.

We score.  Cue Oaf-Explosion… Oaf-Carnage…

Chaos engulfs me but I remain seated.  I haven’t forgotten the previous debacle and so will not join in with the celebrations at this point… The Oafs are overjoyed… They go crazy.  I check my phone to see if this game is in fact the World Cup final and not just another league game against substandard opposition.  It’s not the World Cup final… it’s nothing….

The game is over as a contest.  The opposition are broken and as expected crumble over the next 45 minutes.  The Oafs don’t crumble, they revel, go mental, and lose their tiny, tiny minds.

Number 3 screams at a player from our position in an upper tier a good 50 yards away.  It’s full of swearing and the crowd below look at me as if I’m with the prick.  He follows up the rant with another about bad throw in’s… he’s a lost cause… I switch off…. It’s over… This country is producing thicker Oafs on a yearly basis and they are seeking me out.

The game is over and we head back to the pub to watch a more cerebral, brutal sport…. Rugby… Ireland are on and the pub is crammed with red faces and thick necks…

I’m wedged at the bar next to a bloke in a heavy rain coat and a large trilby cocked at a jaunty angle… I can see the game on the TV through the necks and bald heads ahead of me. Hat man turns to me.  He’s surprisingly younger than the hat/coat combo would suggest but he has the look of a thousand Bushmills chasers…

“What’s that blue stuff?”… he points at a large rugby player on the screen in a white shirt with a blue smear on his arm….”Is that Woad?” he shouts in a thick Dublin accent…

“Woad?” says I, “Woad as in ‘Braveheart’?”… He sees that my face thinks he’s an idiot but he continues…

“Aye… Woad… have they put Woad on….for the battle?”

I explain to him that the blue is the dye from the RBS logo on the pitch, this isn’t a Tavern in the 11^th Century and the shiny box with the little men running around isn’t some form of Alchemy….

“Jaysus” he says… “sorry about that….of course it is…I’m going feckin’ mad…”

I’ve always attracted the nut jobs, as my relationship in the mid to late 90’s proved… but that’s another story…