Take The High Road…Alfred

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Wainwright1

“Thank you SO much Alfred Wainwright…”

Was what I was thinking, as I faced the route before me. All those books he wrote religiously full of every rock and crevice of the Lake District. His passion, writing about all those walking routes, describing each one. The views, the climbs. The terrain that he lived and breathed.

I must admit as a teen I had spent a couple of years with friends, traipsing around the Lakes. Spending a week at a time walking from one Youth Hostel to the next one. Then in the evening going to the pub and making a valiant attempt with my friends of drinking it empty. Because it was a cheap holiday see?

The only reason I went was my friends couldn’t afford a holiday abroad being still at collage. And while I was working and earning, going alone didn’t appeal.. It was a distant prospect. The sun. On the beach. Warm.

Its a resounding memory of walking up hills, carrying everything with us to each destination. Trying to dry it out when we got there. Then going to the pub. Blisters. Lots of blisters. And finally, swimming in the lakes, getting covered in leeches and running round screaming when we realized. The scene was one of a group of frantically shivering lads using a dry stone wall like a sand paper rub in an effort to get the buggers off..Caddy was the worst. I seem to remember him screaming more than most..

So the abiding memory was one of long walks and reading what Wainwright had to say about the next route..

I just wished he drove once in a while and wrote about this one..

Seriously, you can’t beat the smell of burning rubber drifting through your nostrils to make you focus. Especially when its your brakes working overtime that are actually creating the smell.

There was a slight drift of smoke that kept appearing intermittently from below my bonnet accompanied by a finger breaking grip on the steering wheel. My eyes were fixed on the descent before me but there was nothing for it. I couldn’t go back – there wasn’t anywhere to turn around. And this was all downhill. And when I say downhill. I mean there wasn’t any leveling out till you negotiated this winding drop that disappeared from view some 400 foot below. And even then you were non the wiser whether or not it did even out, because the road was swallowed into a black hole that disappeared into a forested area below.

You daren’t take your eyes off what lay before you as you headed towards it.

And all the while the only thing I could think of were the tools, packed into the back of the van, the weighty presence behind me, and, what would remain of any of it and more importantly, ME if these brakes did fail…..

You don’t realize how tense you are until you reach the end of the ordeal. When you manage to break your death grip on the steering wheel and pour from your car on rubber legs and lie face down prone on the tarmac. Hugging the first inkling of level earth you reach. Its at this point you realize you could crack walnuts with your sphincter.

Pope John Paul ii must have been terrible with heights, because he did it every time he got off a plane. He was no sooner off than he was face down on the deck. At least I never kissed it. Well, maybe a little bit..

And walnuts? He must have been a world champion..

This situation was due to a hasty conversation at the breakfast table that morning with Graham, whose B&B I was staying at during the week. (See Ginger Delight)I had relayed to him the fact that the property I was currently working on was on the out-skirts of Egremont, surrounded by rolling pastures filled, mine field like, with lambs, with the sea just beyond the final hill at the back of the house.

It would mean a 50 minute drive back to, and through Keswick onto the M6, to turn South and head home. I was gambling on whether it would be quicker following the A595 coast road past Sellafield down, toward Barrow-in-Furness then swing away from the coast heading inland, entering the M6 some 30-odd miles south of where I would have originally joined it.

“You don’t want to drive all the way through Keswick! You’re right on the A595 where you are! Its a straight drive along the coast. If your lucky, the time you’ll leave you’ll miss the traffic at Sellafield and have a clear run to the motorway.”

Graham also worked as a tour guide around the lakes and knew what he was talking about.

“Oh aye. There’s a little road I know – just past the Brown Cow Inn – that’ll cut a big corner out of the journey. Straight over the top. Great view! Save you 30 minutes..”

I sat thinking it through, eating my poached eggs and the sublime locally sourced bacon (my god it had a taste and smell that brought back child-hood memories. When your mum bought real bacon from the butchers..)

30 minutes…

And the more he talked the better the idea sounded.

And he was right. The view was fantastic. There was a remoteness to the route. I found myself in the middle of no-where. Surrounded by a view that was absent of human occupation, which in this day and age, in this country, is a difficult thing to come by. There were odd vehicles travelling behind at distant points, and cars heading at intervals past me. But it was hills and with dry stone walls giving way to an expansive view of Cumbria to the North. Seriously breathtaking.

I had managed a quick journey down from Egremont, to find the turning by the Brown Cow Inn. I drove up into the hills thinking of the time I was saving.

“I’d be home in no time” I thought..

What I was faced with, as I turned off the A595 and labored up the hill, was a ribbon of a road. Barely wide enough for 2 vehicles to pass each other. Initially, it was narrow, yeah, fine. It had passing points. It was even reasonably level – if patched – and I felt quite confident driving along my merry way thinking,

“Saving 30 minutes here..”

And the view was immense. The route giving panoramic scenes of the valleys through the Lakes, where the sky seemed to go on forever and clouds scudded along above, casting fleeing shadows on the earth below. Flowing up and down hills as you took in the scene arrayed before you. It seriously was breathtaking and I’d challenge anyone not to be moved in some way by it.

I certainly was not long after, as the surface began to change. And what had been a reasonably flat -if narrow -road, was now forced to follow the contours of the land. It now began to wind up and down, in very short troughs and peaks. And bend in and out as it was forced to hug the hillside and overcome the variety of streams that swept off the hill and under the rough bridges built to contend with it. The result was that your view of oncoming traffic was severely limited. I couldn’t see what was before me, or which way the road twisted, until I rose to a crest or crept out of a bend.

What I began to worry about – so short and deep were the rise-and-falls of the road – was had the invisible person heading towards me seen me? Was something in front of me heading in my direction, but unseen, because he was falling into the troughs as I appeared on the crests and we were unknowingly heading towards each other blindly…

Each time I climbed out of a shallow dip in the road, it was to desperately grab a glimpse of the tarmac before me to see if anything was approaching in the opposite direction. If there was I was blindly hoping that he had seen me and was applying the brakes ready to edge round each other, half on and half off the road depending on the accommodating nature of the opposite driver. If either one of us were lucky, there would be a passing point to use. If not…

If your interested in driving it this road, and are heading south on the A595, turn left just after the Brown Cow Inn in Millom. The road will look like something you would squeeze a wide pony up, but it is navigable.

I guarantee the views will be spectacular on a sunny or cloudy day..

I highly recommend you stop to take them in when you reach the tops. If you can find anywhere wide enough to pull over. And, if you can prise your fingers from the steering wheel when you finally come to a halt. A brown paper bag to pant into, or a asthma inhaler might be necessary to help you calm down at this point.

Also leave the bastard in gear when you turn the car off. Gods knows where it’d end up if it starts rolling.

I’ll admit, I wouldn’t send my mother-in-law up there if the weather turned bad mind. Well, Maybe.

And if its snowing. You’d have to find it first then dig your way across if you did.

It made me realize as I finally reached the bottom on the other side. Its no wonder that Wainwright walked everywhere.

You don’t need to worry about changing your brake-pads after every descent when your strolling along smoking a bloody pipe…

And I made certain I went the long way round on the return trip.

Not, The Nine O’clock News

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connery

If there’s a couple things that have become apparent as I’ve grown older, its that,

A. You really DO slow down (you may not think you do, but you DO)

and

B. Things don’t work like they used to.

Also, I must admit, I don’t like too much information pertaining to having any sort of operation or a procedure. The less the better for me if I’m being honest. (See Fainting Goats and What The Mop Lady Saw)

To save you the details, I had to go for a camera investigation to clear up some concerns. I had been worried that I wouldn’t be able to swallow a foot-or-so of optic equipment, and had been stressing, not so quietly over the prospect.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to.

Instead, I was to have about 15 foot of firemans hose inserted up my bum instead.

Oh.

What a relief that was to hear.

I had gone through my usual routine of being told about what was involved in the procedure, by sticking my thumbs in my ears and going “lalalalala” and “Being in a happy place”. I think having gone through the examination by my GP, who (never doubt) was always professional, oozed calm and reassurance and who, incidentally, had the hands of an Irish navvy.

So initially, upon visiting him with my problem and having him say,

“Ahh, yes Mr. Walsh. Just drop your trousers and pop on the bed. Yes that’s right – just tuck those knees to your chest. Heeeeeeeere we go…”

When he said he wanted to examine me, my eyes were drawn to these meaty appendages he called “hands” that were displayed before him on his desk, and wishing I hadn’t been so bashful about visiting the other Doctor’s in the practice first. Who were both women, and had the deft little hands of a small monkeys by comparison. I can assure you, it was with some very slow hesitant steps I got onto the bed in the required position and tried to take a deep breath.

I lay there as he slid his hands into his gloves (I actually think he had a glove on each finger) and heard a raspberry-like-quelch of applied lubricant. I seem to recall him whistling cheerfully, but that have been nerves.

It was with an audible grunt from him, and, I believe, a whimper and clawing scrabble at the wall from me, he inserted what felt like a bunch of bananas and shattered all my illusions of the calm reassurance he had moments before been projecting.

“Ok Mr. Walsh? Just try and relax, deeeep slow breathes.”

Relax??? He was lucky my buttock contraction didn’t break his fingers. (I was counting the depth of insertion by knuckle joints) (And breathe? I was panting like a dog)

It was with a self satisfied,

“Therrrrrrre we go. All done!”

That he snapped off his numerous gloves and dropped them in the bin as he went back behind his desk to begin tapping his notes into his computer. Humming “Hi Ho” I think.

I deflated like a balloon. I had till this point been unaware I had levitated 3 inches or so off the bed until I dropped back on it as he evacuated the scene so to speak. I got dressed gingerly and sat back down before him as he went on. I’m sure anyone who has been abducted by aliens and roundly probed can sympathize.

“Yes, I think I see the problem but I’d like you to be investigated further to be on the safe side. Yes? Ok. I’ll get you an appointment sorted out. Ok? Good man. Off you go Mr. Walsh. Well Done!!”

It was like being mentally slapped on the back by a senior officer in the army. I paused momentarily expecting a medal until I realized my appointment had finished and I had been dismissed.

I won’t bore you with the following weeks. The visits to following consultants, I’m happy to say, was no where near traumatic as he had incredibly small hands compared to Gargantuan, my local GP. Either that Or my local doctor had left me looking like a bucket back there..

Finally the consultant I had been sent to see decided to send me for a camera to investigate further. I had been dreading this moment, the possibility of having an intrusive investigation. I was given a sache of powders to help clear the way for the camera, with instructions on drinking a litre or so every 2 hours the day prior to the investigation. No food just drink.

Now I must admit, I mixed the first concoction and thought “Ha. Nothing to it.” And began glugging away at my(attempted) vanilla flavor drink. It was soon obvious that even with the most dogged determination, drinking down jug after jug wouldn’t be as easy as I thought.

It gets to the point that you finish one jug and think, “Well, that was easy,” until you realize that its already time for the next one to be mixed and started.

By the third jug I felt a slight roll in my stomach, a bubbling so-to-speak. Please don’t think there was any stomach ache. There wasn’t. There wasn’t any urgency or pain. I just thought,

“Aye aye. I’ll just pop to the toilet to be safe.”

I’ve thought long and hard about this. I’m not going into detail. All I can say is, picture this.

James Bond with a hydro jet pack on his back.

Minus the tuxedo. And bow tie.

And jet pack.

waterjetpack3

What followed I had no control over what-so-ever. I found I was hovering about 5 inches above the toilet seat, held up by the sheer force of what was going on below me. I was literally holding onto the toilet seat to stop myself drifting off. Initially I have to say I was impressed. In a child-like way I took enormous pleasure over the water canon going off below me. It was like having my own personal built in Karcher power hose going off at maximum, and being unable to flick the “OFF” switch.

If I hadn’t have held on, I’d have hydro-planed around the bathroom.

I was sat there going ‘Whooooooooa!”

This went on all day. If I’d known it was going to be like this and last as long as it did I’d have worn a crash helmet. In the end I daren’t move too far away from the toilet. And considering I had no control I daren’t fart either. I was just glad to finish the concoction I was forced to drink and see some light at the end of the tunnel. No pun intended.

The following day dawned of the Endoscopy, with me feeling empty and just wanting to get the whole thing over and done with. I was nervous to say the least when I finally arrived at the hospital. It was a matter of procedure to be given my gowns, sign forms, get changed and sit in a tiny waiting room off the main corridor with a several other desparados waiting their turn for what ever camera investigation they were having done. And trust me. I thought I had it bad..

There was one old chap who was already changed and waiting to go down for his investigation. Now, bear in mind, everybody else is sat in this tiny room, with a changing room adjacent to it. So as you walk in to get changed you pass through this crowd of strangers sat in what is really, a nighty and underpants. They’re all waiting their turn to go to another room where, someone they don’t know, is going to make comforting sounds then ram something up their bum.

If they’re lucky..

What was brought to my attention as I sat there was that not everyone was there for the same investigation. And believe me, I was starting to appreciate that it was just going up my bum and not anywhere else.

This old chap who, I discovered was 92, (he looked early 70’s) was extremely sprightly and had acres of optimism. Not so much cup half full but overflowing..

The rest of us were sat nervously fiddling about, sweating with clammy hands waiting our turn. It took this old boy to break the ice in that Old man shout that is supposed to be a quiet question.

“What you here for son?” he asked me. (I was 43 at this point)

“Ah. Umm. You know. Camera up the bum.”

“Ha! Nothin to it lad. Be done before you know it. Won’t even feel it!”

Yeah right. Easy for you to say Slack Harry.

“What about you? What you here for?” I asked him.

“Me? Having the works!”

“The works?”

“Yep! You Know? One up one down.”

“One down?”

“Down your willy lad! You Know? Nothing to it! Ha!”

Fuck me. My legs were crossing as he spoke.

“Good luck with that then mate.”

“Aye, no problem son. Playing bowls this afternoon. Need to get a push on.”

OMFG.

I’d have been sat in an Ice bath.

Fortunately he was called up next.

“Here we go!” and off he did.

I sat there for the next 30 minutes making small talk with a couple of blokes waiting their turn, but I soon ran out of things to say. If It’d been my mum she’d have probably knew their sisters Aunty who lived next door to Mrs. Smith in 1976. Or some diluted connection or other.

And then she would have talked them to death before her turn. I just sat wishing I had her knack right now.

The silence was finally broken by the return of Captain indestructible who walked briskly back into the waiting room nighty flapping behind him like a cloak, en-route to the changing room.

If he’d had braces on he’d have had his thumbs tucked in them and chest stuck out no doubt.

“All done! No worries lads! Next up!”

The only thing he didn’t do was click his fucking heels.

Mercifully the nurse appeared over his shoulder.

“Mr. Walsh? Yes? Your next this way please..”

I was led along the corridor to a small room. Inside were 3 nurses sat around the bed surrounded by a variety of equipment. And with what looked about 30 foot of coiled hose that housed the optic camera. All I could think was,

Nurses. Female. Looking up my bum. Omg. My Mum probably knows 2 out of the 3…fuck.

Straight away bright smiles,

“Hello Michael. Just pop on the bed and face that way please.”

“Jesus. here we go again.” I thought, scanning the 3 sets of hands on view.

They were certainly brisk and business-like.

“I’m just going to apply some lubrication Michael, then we’ll fill you with some air to make the process easier.”

Which she did. Which, wasn’t so bad. I could have done the same thing at Tesco’s petrol station and gone prepared. She popped in this tube and I was literally inflated like a tyre.

“Ah. Therrrre we go. All ready? I’ll just begin easing in the camera. Oh! Here you go Michael.! You can watch on the monitor!”

Bear in mind this to someone who really, really doesn’t like information about what’s coming. Now, in fact, I had it on a screen 12 inches from my face. In colour too. Do I really want to look up my own bum? I don’t think so. But here I was. In wide-screen. So with a,

“Hows that Michael?’

and me mumbling,

“Oh yes, that’s just dandeeeeeeeeeeeeee! ohmyfuckinggoodgod! Myeyesmeyes!! Ithinkicantastegunmetal!! (It seemed to go that far up)

You don’t need to know the intimate details. All I’ll relay was that they were very, Very Impressed with how cleaned out I was. It was with a slight whinney and scrabbling from me, that she inserted and gave me a running commentary, as professional as Sir David Attenborough.

“Oooh you’ve done such a good job – as clean as a Flute! Well done Michael!!”

I think it was supposed to be music to my ears… but I spent the time gnawing at my knuckles, with a brow beaded with sweat and my knees tucked into my stomach waiting for it to end. Finally she began to withdraw the miles of tubing only at the last moment to think she saw something and push back in. I must admit she must have caught something, because it really got my attention.

“WooooEEEEEEEE!”

“No! Looks fine. All done!”

I Sounded like a steam whistle not a flute as she whipped the optic out. Knuckle gnawing, lip chewing, I was left lying there panting, feeling sickly and dizzy, thinking,

“My God! I sooooo need to fart!”

“You ok Michael? You’ve gone a funny colour..”

“Yes fine, fine – I’m really sorry but can I go to the toilet? Please??”

“Yes,” – Bright smile – “Common feeling don’t worry, First door on the left by the reception desk..”

I was already on my way down the corridor. I pushed into the toilet and locked the door. It was a single tiny room right behind the reception desk. The explosion of trapped air that followed was, embarrassing as I was constantly aware of being so close to the reception desk, but I couldn’t help it. I was more concerned with my vision coming and going as I felt more and more faint. What restored me somewhat was the thought that If I fainted in this tiny enclosure, I was more than likely going to head-butt the door. And knowing my luck go straight through it and land face-down-arse-up in the corridor. Which end would they resuscitate??

“Well he’s breathing ok at that end..”

So I managed to hold it together and stumble off to the changing rooms past my new found friends.

My trip home was loud. And continuous. I have to say It wasn’t a painful experience just one that dented my pride. If theres one thing that I can safely say I learnt from the experience its this.

Check your GP’s hands before making him aware of this kind of problem.

And just hope, you get your results before your mum does…

Fainting Goats

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knee1

I was sat in Croma, a pizza restaurant that opened in the  renovated center of Prestwich, with my family. I had only a day or two before undergone knee surgery to correct a cartilage  problem and was just happy to be on the recovery side of the experience. I was sat in shorts with one heavily strapped, swollen, elephantine-like leg stretched out awkwardly at an angle to the table.

A natural disaster waiting to happen to any unsuspecting waiter clumsy enough not to notice it. It was at this point I noticed the chap hobbling in with the same strapping on his leg. He dropped into his chair with an audible sigh (I didn’t do that – stiff upper lip) and rooted round with his leg like he was trying to get a signal with a tv arial, in an attempt to find a comfortable position to point his appendage.

He couldn’t miss me as we were aiming legs at each other, like attracting ends of magnets pointing at each other. I could actually feel my chair sliding forward.

Ah. no.

That was just the anaesthetic still wearing off.

I could see him straighten slightly as he became aware of the similar strapping, and then we shared a knowing glance, my leg doppleganger and I across the way. It was that bottom lip sticking out and silent nod, saying

“Yeah. I feel your pain mate.”

Kindred in spirit so to speak.

Also I was thinking,

“Please God let the waiter trample on, and fall over his leg, and for Christs sake not mine..”

I must admit I had been nervous initially going into the operation. Too much information brought to my attention in the run up to it. I’m one of those people who doesn’t like to be made aware of all the facts entailed in the operation.

I would happily wander into the theatre and have the op blind, rather than be inundated with information about the whole procedure.

Really. I don’t need to know how I’m to be cut, even if it was key-hole surgery. The insertion of what-ever to cut away the damaged doo-dar and make good with a snip here and a shave there and a… well.

Really?

I don’t think so. Hack away good man, just don’t tell me what the hell your going to do as long as I wake up at the end of it.

My wife on the other hand, needs information before she can progress in similar circumstances. Go to the dentist and he would have to explain, step by step, exactly what he was about to do.

I mean. Come on.

She would, as my Gran used to say,

“Want to know about the inside of a cats arsehole.”

Just to settle her mind.

When the day dawned I was also preoccupied with other things.

I ran a team with my good friend Tramline Dave and, after a season of notable success, we had the Oldam Chronicle coming to a training session to take photos of the boys, and print an article. On the day of the interview, I was due in hospital for surgery on the cartilage problem in my knee. I was desperate to be at the team photo, just to stand at the back of the picture and be part of it after the success we had experienced.

As it was, it would be touch and go whether I would be out of hospital in time after surgery and more importantly, compos mentis and coherent after coming round. I was pig-headed in my attitude that I would make it. My wife Jane, on the other hand (a nurse) (what did she know?) was more skeptical.

“Mmmm. I think you should just take it easy Mike.”

I affected that tone you take when your talking to someone who, doesn’t understand the situation because she’s being a girl

“Jane. Dear. Its the paper. We’re going to be in the news. I have to be there.”

Adding a silent (Pffft.) and a (Derrrrrrr.) All in the privacy of my own head.

Jane did what she normally does and just left me to find out the hard way.

When we got to hospital at 7.30am sharp and checked in, we found out that they weren’t actually sure if I could be fitted in on the day. So it was a case of sit and wait. And wait. Annnnnd wait. All I could think about was the time. I was caught between thinking about the operation and what time the photographer was due for the team photo.

Until around 11am we asked if there was any news on my operation situation only to have the nurse do a double take as if realizing I was still there and a quick dart off to the reception counter. Followed quite sharpish by,

“Mr. Walsh? Yes this way please.”

Ah. Here we go then. And we were led off to another part of the hospital for the surgery.

We arrived at another department where the nurse halted us and said to my wife,

“Maybe you would like to say goodbye now Mrs walsh?”

A bit terminal if you ask me. Because all I could think was,

“Fuck me. I’m going to die.”

I mean, I was expecting another waiting room for, a short wait. Somewhere I would have time to steady my nerves and get ready to go in. But this was it. They were going for in. Right now.

I gave Jane a slightly clingy, clammy hug. I think she pried me off in the end, and I was led off beyond another door stopping just before I went through to throw back,

“I will be back.”

and then in a more urgent whisper,

“Don’t go far, I need to get out of here sharpish for the photo..”

Beyond the door I was given 2 gowns and the privacy of a changing room to get my theatre outfit on. Which I have to say is an improvement on the old days. Then, you were given a single gown and no idea which way round it was worn, only to put it on either opening at the front, so you could reach and lace it up, then spend the trip clutching it to your belly in an effort at modesty. Or put it on open at the back, unable to lace it up, with your arse-end on full display as you wandered around. And socks. You can never wear the right matching socks with these gowns..

With 2 gowns, you put one on one way and the other one over it the opposite way. Result. Complete coverage. You still look like a dick with whatever socks you wear mind.

I was led to a room and told to pop onto the bed and realax. (?) I lay there, stressing over the op and looking at the clock wondering if I would be done and dusted in time to get to the other side of Manchester for the team photo.

The attending nurses were professional and already prepping my hand for the anaesthetic.

“How are you Michael? Ready to go down to theatre? Just a small incision and in he goes , little bit of a clean up, nip here BlahBlahBlah….(FFS. Here we go again I thought.) ”

In answer to both questions,

Sweaty. I felt Damp even. And anxious. Definitely breathing a bit harder. Harder by the minute with your description thank-you-so-much.

And No. No I’m not ready. I would say I’m ready to just go-the-fuck-to-sleep-now-please. Now? Please God now??

(And only my mum, nurses, doctors a Priest and the Police call me Michael)

And on she went with my anxiety rising with what was about to happen, thinking along the lines of,

Would I wake up? Jesus! Is that the time? This is going to be a rush alright! My God! Did they mark the right knee? Oh Shit! I’m going to come round minus a fucking kidney-”

And other similar thoughts until finally the nurse said,

“Here we go Michael, we’ll just pop this needle in here, and there you go. You should feel something cold going up your arm now. Yes? You’ll feel slightly sleepy and in a minute you’ll drop off to sl-”

I’ll tell you what.

That anaesthetic was the business. Because the next thing I knew was,

“Michael? Michaelll? Hello? how are you feeling Michael?”

I sort of popped out of quite a heady deep sleep, to open my eyes, with a “Whaaaaa? Wha?” That lip smacking sort of wake up, not quite with it, to see a new face, a new room and my leg heavily strapped and propped before me. It had really seemed like moments before that the nurse had been telling me I would drop off to sleep shortly, I couldn’t even remember my eyes closing.

I was impressed to say the least.

I was wheeled from the single room into the recovery room, where other people lay on beds obviously recovering from they’re own visits to the theatre. Another nurse came over to ask me if I wanted anthing to eat or drink.

“No. No thanks I’m fine. Yep. Smashing. Can I go now?”

“…Actually you don’t look too good Michael. Maybe a cup of tea and a sandwich? Yes?”

Actually I felt terrible but the over-riding thought was

“Done! Woohoo! I can make the team photo. My god. I feel shite.”

I really should have had a cup of tea at the very least. Just something to settle me down. But it really wasn’t too long after I was insistent on giving my wife a call to come and collect me.

“Your sure?? How long have you been out?” asked jane.

“I’m finnnnnne janey. Just come get me. You can run me up to training later for the picture.”

“Your joking. Your not. You idiot. You really need to take it easy. Come home and put your feet up. Relax.”

“Jane, Jane Jane. Oh ye of little faith. Come get me. Please? I’m sat waiting. See you in 20.”

And with that jane was on her way. I called the nurse over and told her.

“my wifes on the way, I can get out soon yes?”

“Are you sure Michael? Really, you’re colour isn’t too good. You should take a bit of time. Really. A cup of tea? Just one?”

“I’m fine thanks. Really. Where should I go and wait?”

She just fixed me with a look that my wife often wore when, she knew better, knew that I knew she knew better but was resigned to the fact that I was doing it anyway and I could suffer the consequences.

And I must admit, under that stare I felt a moments unease. I really did feel dreadful but was slightly desperate at this point to get out, and was watching the seconds hand on the clock do laps.

“Ok. If you insist. Just head through the doors and sit in the waiting room. We need to discharge you.”

“Thanks nurse. I really appreciate it.”

And I slid my bandaged leg off the bed onto the floor and took a step forward.

I had to hop onto the other leg and as I did, Someone had taken away the bendy bit in my knee and replaced it with something that really hurt. I managed to slip into my shorts and trainers, no way I was going for the laces. All I felt was nausea, but I thought I’d grit my teeth and just take it a bit careful, and sit down as soon as possible. This was sore.

I managed to get into the waiting room and find a seat. Feeling quite pasty I sat waiting for Jane to arrive. I realized that I must have looked a bit worse for wear when Jane came through the door and took a good look at me.

“Are you ok. You don’t look it. Your a terrible colour. Why are you going home now? Have you had a cup of tea?? You should be still in there.” She said indicating the recovery room.

(What is it with nurses and tea?)

“Ahh I’m ok janey, Just get the nurse so she can discharge me. I can probably make the training. I’ll take a deckchair…”

So with “The Look”, Jane went off to fetch the nurse. We were then led out of the waiting room into what I can only describe as a broom cupboard. With a table in it. It was the tiniest windowless room I’ve ever been in that’s officially a room.

When the door opened it left just enough room to squeeze behind it and around the end of the desk, to sit on a bench that ran along the 4 foot of wall, and left you sat opposite the female discharging nurse, who (was significantly built to hammer ship plates together with hot rivets and a 40lb hammer), had taken her turn to squeeze into the room after myself and Jane. The tiny room had suddenly become more air-less and all the time my knee (now throbbing) was taking up more of my attention.

The conversation went along the lines of,

“Michael, blahblahbalh?Balahbalhbal blah blah? hahahaha! Blah? Ha?”

In the meantime my vision was narrowing down tunnel-like, and it just seemed to be getting warmer by the minute. And air. I felt like running a finger round the invisible collar at my throat, there just wasn’t enough air. And I realized I was (for the first time in my life) going to pass out.

I had just enough time to prop myself, right into the corner of the room, I mean really wedge myself in, because I’m not kidding, it was that or flake out and come round face down on the table with a nose bleed.

All I remember is Jane saying,

“Mike are you ok?”

And me saying,

“Not really, I’ll be back in a minute.” And I let go.

Bang. Gone. Brilliant.

I came round with the nurse, I’m sure she wasn’t alone, but by Christ it felt like she was making a good job of dragging me from the room single handed. And I’m sort of coming round on rubber knees, trying to get my legs under me intermittently thinking, “Blimey I feel awful -Jesus my knee!”.

As she drew me from the room towards a waiting trolley (I actually felt disappointed there wasn’t a resounding pop of a cork leaving a bottle) other arms took up the slack and helped me up. At which point I managed a look down the corridor to see Jane peering round the corner looking quite tearful.

And then I went again.

I just felt myself slump into the arms around me and a knee that wouldn’t bend, did.

I came round again with – it felt like – only the gargantuan nurse present at one elbow, (I think it was just sheer gorilla presence) lifting me up with varicose veins bulging like tangerines and saying,

“Michael! Stand up! Michael! For fucks sake stand up!!”

I’m sure in a professional sense she shouldn’t have been saying that, but I have no doubt in my mind, I’d have been saying worse in her position. In fact I’d have let them hit the deck, rolled them into the recovery position, said “Fuckit” and let them fend for themselves.

Anyhow, they had me on my feet with a nurse either side and Godzilla cursing and cajoling me onto the trolley until red faced, her temper finally snapped.

“Get on the fucking trolley Michael! NOW!”

And I tried, I really did. And it was only as I strained to get on the trolley, leaning towards it, that I realized that I just couldn’t get my feet off the floor. It was only as I looked down in obvious confusion that I understood. The 18 stone nurse currently supporting my right side and and cursing me heaven and back was stood on my laces.

And there was just no way, with the best will in the world, was I going to lift my feet onto the trolley with a small moon anchoring me to the ground.

“Michael! Micha-”

I managed to finally meet her eyes and say,

“Laces. Your stood. On my laces…”

“Oh my God! I’m sorry!”

And in a blink she was off them like an overweight gazelle and had me on the trolley in one smooth move.

I spent the rest of the day in recovery. Drinking tea.

I have to say I seem to have gotten worse with age. I’m not sure if it was the fact I tried to leave too early, (probably) or the fact I didn’t drink a gallon of tea before attempting to leave (possibly) or the shock of the swearing nurse (This seems far more entertaining)

I think It was the shock from the swearing nurse that put me in mind of the fainting goats. Youtube it.

And I never did make the photo.

Dave did though. The bastard.

My Curly Girl..

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EM N VIN

Emily is my eldest daughter. I have 3 children, Em, Holly and Callum. I’ve mentioned each of them briefly during odd stories and will write a piece about each of them over time, as they allow me too.

This one, is about Emily.

Em is 21 and currently in her 3rd year at University. Now I’m biased (obviously) but Emily is special. She is the most kindest, caring, patient, person I know. I have no doubt she has gained these attributes from her mum Jane, who I’ve been married to for 23 years and I fortunate to be able to say I love her more each year.

(I know what your thinking – “That’s great, after all that time still feeling like that” – together 25 years this year actually.)

But, I hasten to add, I’m a catch, and she just sank her claws in and wouldn’t fucking  let go…

And then, upon getting married, she suddenly decided that NOW was the time to have children.

And I mean NOWWWWWWWWWWW.

I on the other hand, was planning the next 5 years worth of holidays in the sun. That and experimenting with an assortment of factor 2 – 50 tanning lotions and making the gradual transition from speedos to shorts. As it was, Jane became a splendidly and a wonderfully compact pregnant shape in fairly short order.

The whole speedo-to-shorts revolution passed me by. I felt quite cheated. It had all happened without me and speedos were long forgotten by the time I next went abroad some 9 years later.

I must add that during my barren holiday spell Jane became pregnant another 2 times, and each time managed to maintain the same small compact shape with each child. To the point that on each occasion the hospital were sure, that each baby was under-size and there was a problem. All because Jane wasn’t wallowing like a tanker and removing door-frames bodily as she passed through them. There never was a problem and on each birth Jane delivered a healthy 7 1/2, 81/2 and a 9.3lb + size baby.

Emily’s arrival into the world was accompanied on the night by a blaring car alarm that seemed to go off every 10 minutes or so outside Jane’s window. It was like a nails on chalk-board period. I spent the day and evening at the window cursing the multi-tone alarm that continued to raise my already frayed nerves to breaking point. Till finally Net, who Jane shared a house with during her nurse training days, arrived to check up on Jane. Net by this point in their careers had headed into midwifery and was just finishing her shift.

She then went on to tell us how during a manic day, she had spent the shift rushing out to her car because,

“The bloody car alarm had gone stupid and had been going off allllllll day!!”

(Jesus, she doesn’t know how close she came to discovering a vehicle spread across the car-park..)

Then Emily arrived and I was, am, and till my dying day will be.

Utterly besotted.

Even from being tiny, Emily has always been incredibly articulate. I always found it amazing to come home and have a conversation with this tiny little human being, who, was so serious in her discussions. Em has a wonderful empathy with people. I mean she really cares what people think and feel. I think sincerity from a tiny age was just so sweet to come into contact with. The lovely thing about Em is when she turns her attention on you, you know you have her full and complete regard whole your in her company. And you only realize how much notice she’s given you when, a few days later a card will arrive, a card that means what it says, the care and thought that’s gone into the words evident. Or a small parcel of something, just to let you know she listened to what you said and to remind you she loves you and heard you…

I love her for these simple things she does.

When she was born and began to grow, became more vocal and interesting by the day, it became obvious to me I had this small persons welfare and care to try and guide. Hopefully in a direction that made life interesting for her and fun. I loved talking to her because she wanted to know things. She loved stories and I was only to pleased to make up things for her. Because the beauty of it was, She had this wonderful trusting naivety, really believed everything she was told.

The “Happily Ever After”, true faith in life.

I think I got the bigger kick out of just seeing her reaction to what ever I could come up with, or what tale (Lie) I could tell her..

Even meal times weren’t sacred. Its amazing what you can do with a bag of alphabet potato shapes. It was just a good job I’m not dyslexic.

Scans 003

I had a field day.

My God. The power.

I don’t think I’ve ever come across another child who was so patient, or would consider so carefully, what you explained to her, see the common sense of it, accept it and move on. I don’t think I’ve ever, and I really mean EVER seen Emily have a tantrum.

I felt cheated sometimes.

Till the other two came along. And I found that dragging a screaming, floor kicking child by the reins around Sainsburys, wasn’t as funny as it looked when it was someone else dragging their child. And trying negotiating,

“Come on, be good, get up. Soon as we’re done you can have…”

Or calling their bluff and walking away to the end of the aisle to hide and peer round the beans, to wait for the drum of small feet hurtling after you, only to see them either, still face down kicking the floor, or, running off in the other direction like a mini-raging Hulk.

Or finally, counter raging back at them and just dragging them along, till they got fed up of the squealing noise their faces made on the floor and decided to get up.

Only for them to stand stock-still, tip their heads back, let shoulders slump and arms dangle, and bawl in stationary up-right rage mode.

Em just didn’t hit this period. Nor did she hit the terrible teenage years, of uncommunicative, unhelpful surliness. That teenage angst more commonly echoed along the lines of,

“The world is a shit and I hate it and everyone in it (apart from my friends who understand me),”

Just didn’t feature on Emily’s radar.

She passed through it all in a sublimely pleasant way.

Everything she’s gone through to get where she is present day, is just a reflection of her sheer determination to succeed.

Emily is now at Uni in her 3rd year studying Speech Therapy. Its just a good job I don’t have to say the “Therapy” bit because it drives her mad when I can’t quite pronounce the “th” bit clearly, and end up uttering it more with an “f” sound. She tries to make me say it properly, only for me at this point to intentionally exaggerate the pronunciation until she shouts at me and says,

“O sweet baby Jesus! For Gods sake! Its “th!” “th!” Say it with me you bloody half-wit!! “TH!!””

And I momentarily snap to attention like I’ve had a mental slap and something shifts in my brain and I say it.

“Th! Th!! Woohoo! Th! THHHHH!” And almost immediately slump back to the “f” sound.

“Th! Th!! F! F!! F?? Ohhhhhhhh Fffffffuckit!”

And Em shouts despairingly,

“OooohhhmmmmyyyyyyyyyGGGGGGOOOOOODDDDDDDD!! Your doing it on bloody purpose!!!!!!!!!!”

It bodes well for some traumatized child who can’t say “Sammy Snake” who she may later treat, that even with a tongue that will flap like a wet towel, they will be able to swear fluently before the end of the 2nd session.

They may not succeed in saying “S”. But they sure as fuck won’t have many “F’s” in their vocabulary either. With Em’s professional acumen and determination, they will be able to say,

“Thammy th’nake you motherthucker.”

And will be nothing but heroic in their achievements in shouting

“Thuuck this for a game of th’oilders!” as they storm out.

I’m just happy she leads a good life with a boyfriend who loves her and who truly cares for her. They’re a great match and work well together and its a reflection of the determination to succeed with their long distant relationship that after 3 years at opposing Uni’s, their still dedicated to each other and support each other, even at the most uncomfortable turn of events..

To the point of, when sitting in a restaurant on holiday and receiving their order, being distressed to find it was something quite inedible. So rather than complain, make a scene,

hurt any body’s feelings,

Vinny kept cramming as much as was humanely possible in his mouth and going to the toilet looking like a manic hamster so he could spit it out so it looked like they had enjoyed the meal…

Finally and on a serious note.

I speak to Em most days just because we can. She loves what she is doing, what she’s working towards. But I think she gets enormous amounts of pleasure out of life in general, either at Uni or at the part time job working in a coffee shop in town and all the people she gets to meet there.

And while she may be away from home leading her own life, she’s never far from my thoughts. None of my children ever are.

And, even though I see her only occasionally, that’s fine.

She’s leading a full and busy life, doing what any parent would want their child to do.

Enjoying it.

I speak to her most days and the days and when I do get to see her, the hug is always worth the wait. Its like having my own personal ray of sunshine that automatically brightens up a day that I didn’t realize was overcast till I saw Emily at that precise moment.

Personally what I get from having such a caring relationship with Em, is simply that.

A caring, really caring sincere relationship.

See, I know I’m amazingly fortunate to have this young lady in my life, and to be able to spend time with this person. Because she always lightens my heart every, every time I set eyes on her again.

What I hope is, that I’ve in some way inspired her to try things in life. To believe in herself, and, although its hard at the best of times, never to doubt herself or fear a challenge but to be brave enough to rise and meet it head on.

Because if there’s one thing that I’m certain Emily knows and will never doubt.

It’s that her Dad knows there’s no limit to what she can achieve and he’ll always be there when she needs him most.

me and emmy
I don’t think I’ve ever had any doubts about My Curly Girl.

So, it must be true.

The Yokes On Wayne..

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OSTRICH EYELASHES

The Porters have paid a fleeting visit back to the Manchester. This time in order to pick up a car for Wayne to drive back mid-week while Kerry works on till Sunday, then follow Mr. Porter home. Kerry and Wayne have been making do, driving Wayne’s van around, looking, like a couple of professional tinkers.

Its not the sort of vehicle you potter about in in high heels and tiny skirt. Its more designed for boots and muck. And towing excavators round Paris…(See Paris Or Bust)

So, the Idea for the car is to have a more comfortable drive around Cognac, so that when they visit someone it doesn’t look like they’re going to pull up in a cloud of diesel smoke, knock on the occupants and door and ask if they want their drive tarmacing or do they want this old tin bath Monsieur?

Also the main reason is so Kerry can drive herself to the airport on the monthly visits back here and leave the car parked when she lands back in France. This will save Wayne a 4 hour exhausting round-trip, to drop her off and pick her up each time she journeys to-and-from the UK.

They have been busy on the house over the last 3 weeks, concentrating work on the barn conversion, with an eye towards renting it out as a holiday venue for people visiting the area during the summer. This has also involved working on the front and back gardens to make it more presentable.

DSCN0212

(Looking back towards the front of the house after working on the garden)

DSCN0181

(Looking in the opposite direction before work on the garden, after fitting part of the fencing)

In between all this they continue to work on the farm, looking after the Ostriches. And finding at times its not all fun. The birds are moved into various fields as they grow larger. But sometimes, once they’re in the field, its obvious they’re not quite large enough. So Kez and Wayne will get the shout to bring back a couple of the smaller birds until they’re big enough to move back into the field. This involves bringing a trailer round, loading them in and driving them back into the immediate farm area.

This happened to two of the younger birds, who were duly transported back to the farm. It was upon the arrival back at the starting point, that Kerry was in the kitchen talking to Pierre, when she looked outside to see one of the youngsters panting heavily, taking gulping breathes, having a panic attack in fact.

By the time they rushed outside the youngster had dropped to the floor and was lay obviously distressed, not breathing properly and seemingly running out of energy. Pierre, a retired vet, immediately gave the bird a shot of adrenalen, and it somewhat recovered.

“The wheel barrow. Fetch the barrow Kerry and we’ll load the bird in and take it to a field on its own, where it can recover.’ He said

So Kerry went off to fetch a barrow to carry the bird in.

When she returned though, there was a family visiting Pierre. A mother, father and 3 children.

Kerry had done a double take as she came closer pushing the barrow. It was obvious the bird had taken a permanent turn for the terminal, and now lay prone, stretched out, quite dead.

Pierre in the mean time was explaining to his younger charges,

“Ah oui les petits! L’oiseau est endormi. Voir? Comment il a fermé les yeux et repose, comme un bébé endormi! Oui?”

“Ah Yes little ones! The bird is asleep. See? How it has closed its eyes and rests, like a baby! Fast asleep! Yes?”

Obviously, trying not to distress the children.

And Kerry played along.

“Yes, yes! Asleep! I’ll take our tired bird to the field to rest Pierre? Let it sleep in peace!”

“Oui, s’il vous plaît Kerry. Voir les enfants, l’oiseau va revenir à son champ pour se reposer oui?”

“Yes, please Kerry. See children, the bird is going back to his field to rest yes?”

So it was loaded onto the barrow but its long neck wouldn’t fold on, and it was a constant effort to keep its head on board as it kept rolling off and thudding onto the floor. It was like having a weighted kite tail flopping out every so often. The only thing Kerry could do was stop the barrow every 10 foot or so, and throw the neck and head back on top of the body.

Upon returning she was all smiles and attempting to put a shine on the situation.

“Ho Pierre. The bird is resting in the field (wink, wink.) He’s fast asleep children, having sweet dreams! (Smile)

Only for the eldest, a girl of around 10 to look condescendingly at Kerry and say,

“Eh bien, si ce n’était pas avant, il doit être raide mort maintenant, compter combien de fois vous avez essayé de cerveau le baiseur …..”

“Well, If it wasn’t before, it must be stone dead now, counting how many times you tried to brain the fucker..”

Maybe not quite that, but that’s what she would have said if she could have.

The Ostrich eggs are a great return financially. One egg, boiled, can be served to feed 5 people. Its a feast all on its own. These are collected from the 2 reproduction fields as they are spotted. Only that is, if whoever spots it, knows it wasn’t there the previous day. That way they know its fresh and hasn’t been sat in the sun for a number of days going rotten. If there’s any doubt then the egg is thrown away.

Now Wayne, in an effort to meet the demand of nieces and nephews who having gone to school to tell all and sundry their Aunt and Uncle are working with Ostriches, have began clamoring for Ostrich eggs, (Blown) to take into school in a kind of show-and-tell. So Wayne had picked up a couple of eggs that he knew wouldn’t be used and were due to be thrown away. These he duly took home to prepare for the smaller family members on the other side of the Channel. Taking great care, he took the first egg and propped it in position, then took his drill, set up with a fine drill bit, and carefully began to drill a hole in the end of the egg in preparation to blowing the yoke from it.

This drill bit was completely unsatisfactory though, and wasn’t really doing the job. So it was time to resort to a proper drill bit. A hole cutter in fact. The type of tool you would use to drill a hole to allow a set of kitchen sink taps come through.

This would surely sort it out.

The trouble, with picking up an unclaimed egg your not sure about, is the fact that its just that. Your not sure about it. Keep in mind you’re only going to blow an egg that is going to be thrown away. The problem is, although you know its passed its best you just don’t know how long its lain unattended.

Until that is you try and drill a hole in one end then the other so you can blow the yoke from it to create an empty shell.

Which is what Wayne did for his young niece and nephew.

Kerry was in the house at the time when she her the loud yell, which immediately trailed off into retching, and the sound of someone crashing around the barn stumbling into things. She rushed out to see what had happened, thinking Wayne had had some sort of accident. Which, in a way he had.

The trouble (as Wayne found out) with a rotten egg, is as it decomposes, gas builds up on the inside. So when you take your trusty Makita cordless drill, insert a 15mm hole-cutter bit, hold the egg between your thighs and begin to drill the top end of the egg, what actually happens is, that the hole you create, goes off like a sawn off shotgun.

The egg blew up in Wayne’s face like a geyser. A explosive spray of clotted, rotten egg. It erupted into his face, all over his hair, chest and even into his mouth.

In fact most of his person received a generous dollop of rotten egg. Wayne did the only thing he could do, which was drop the egg and begin stumbling blindly around the barn, throwing up all over the shop. It was all in a effort to get as far away as possible from the smell of rotten egg, which, considering that it covered him,
was difficult in the extreme.

It was like attempting to run away from himself, whilst trying to rub egg from his eyes while falling over everything in his path, bent double, retching, with his toes curling in his egg covered boots.

Into this picture rushed Kerry, slightly frantic hearing the noise emanating from the barn, to see Wayne in his obvious distress, struck blind, heaving like it was terminal.

The first thing she did was begin shouting Wayne.

“Wayne! Wayne whats wrong!! Are you O-”

Then the smell hit her.

“Wayne! Oh jesus Christ! WTF is that smell Urrrrrgh! UUUURGH!!”

Only now it had turned into a vomiting and retching contest, as both of them wheeled away from the other trying to get away from the source of the smell. Only, the smell was everywhere. Rotten egg is unbelievably pungent. If you’ve ever smelt one you will know what I mean.

Only, this wasn’t a normal chicken egg. This was an egg of epic proportions. This was a Desperate-fucking-Dan size egg. An egg to end all eggs. This fucker had just blown up all over Wayne, who was now folded over in the opposite corner of the barn from Kerry, in the process of trying to lick his own arse, in an attempt to take away the taste of rotten egg. Anything, in fact, would have tasted better than what he was currently tasting and smelling.

Whilst across the room Kerry squinted through the tears streaming down her face shouting Wayne.

“UUUUUURGH! UUUUURGH!! Oh dear God Wayne! OH deeeeear Goooooooodddd!!!! UUURGH!! WTF have you done??”

I can’t really go on in good faith describing the retching contest that went on like tennis across the barn. The smell.(Jesus the smell) And the noise of the stomach churning hawking. Each one setting the other off like a couple vocal minefields. As one began heaving the other would then react accordingly and follow suit.

The only thing I can really add, is that the young niece and nephew are still waiting for they’re blown Ostrich eggs.

And the only way they’re like to get one is if they come over and blow one themselves.

Wayne has a drill set up, waiting to be used. Kids, come on over.

Paris Or Bust

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Paris

A foreword…

Any of the French tales in this blog concern my sister Kerry and husband Wayne who recently took the plunge and moved over there after spending 6 years renovating a fabulous old property part-time. They decided it would need a dedicated push to complete it.

So.

That’s what they’re doing. They moved over full time in 2013 with Kerry flitting backwards and forwards working in the UK with occasional visits from Wayne…And people queuing to return the other way…(see Dance Like A Butterfly Sting Like A Ron, Sucked Off By A Camel, Vive Le Garlic (Long Live The Garlic), Ostrich Heaven)

Kerry and Wayne recently returned to the UK To collect Waynes new excavator and transport it back over to France. They drove over here in their car to sell that, then bought a new van and trailer to load and tow the excavator back home..It was like an adult swap-shop for vehicles.

They spent the week over here which, as ever, flew by and it was soon time for them to return to France before they knew it. I think all the visit did for Wayne was reinforce what a good decision it has been to move to France in the first place. Free from the day-to-day grind and stresses that we all encounter over here. Kerry is gradually getting to the same frame of mind. I think initially it was daunting for her as she still comes back to the UK every 3 weeks or so to continue to work, and I think its harder in that sense to completely be free of the mentality that comes from being in the grind that is the UK.

Coming back here more often, only slows down that integration into the laid back way of life that is integral to where they live now. And I don’t see much of her when she’s here for a couple of reasons I think.

One is, I think Kez feels she intrudes in some way and tries to keep busy, out and about till its time for her to come home to sleep. (She doesn’t Intrude and is no bother what-so-ever)

Secondly, everyone wants to see her and she spends her time trying to cover all those bases, in between doing squats, press-ups and boxing sessions at the gym.

From trying to fit in arrangements for new business ideas she has, (watch this space…) Its taking time to source all the things she wants in place, but Kerry is as ever, ultra efficient and covers all the possible areas before she’ll get anything up and running.

So. Lots to do. Then its back to France and a 2 hour drive home when she lands, a going from a svelt C cup to a massive DD cup due to the packets of biscuits she secretes into her bra for Wayne when he lands. I mean, What security guard is going to stop a woman with big knockers strolling slowly (she knows you can rush a good chocolate digestive) through customs to search her bag, when you can stare at her busty – if somewhat crunchy – chest instead..

The last departure saw Kerry and Wayne driving home to Cognac towing the Digger. It took almost 3 times as long to drive back than it did to do the journey a week earlier coming in this direction. The reason being that the van couldn’t safely tow the Digger over 55 mph. They drove to Dover and slept over, then travelled over to France on the ferry. Once in France they were faced with the journey down to Cognac. Wayne had driven the first leg and now it was Kerry’s turn. So he programmed the Sat-nav. Normally they skirt the capital, avoid if they can any heavy traffic. Certainly, avoid driving through Paris full stop.

So it was no surprise that the Sat-nav took them straight into the center.

The trouble with sat-nav is you trust it. Blindly. When it speaks in that cool, calm voice and says,

“Turn right”

of course you turn right.

“Turn left”

And your already rolling the steering wheel. So when it said

“Take the second left and continue for 3 miles”

That was what Kerry did.

Only the second left took them into a height restriction zone. Kerry has said before, every time they end up in Paris, she’s the one driving. (She often finds she is when Wayne programs the sat-nav. I think he just likes to take in the sights while Kerry sweats.) As she turned the corner and saw the height restriction signs, suspended across the road, she felt her stomach knot and knuckles whiten as she gripped the steering wheel that bit tighter.

The first sign she hit took off the hazard light off the top of the cab with a plastic CRUNCH follow-up by a metallic “CLANG” as the arm of the digger dinged it as it swung back down like an after-thought.

“Ohshitohshit! We’re on the wrong road again Wayne!!”

“look kez!! Loook!!!! There’s the Eiffel tower!!”

Kerry was probably still looking at him in disbelief opened mouthed as she hit the next barrier.

CLANG!!

“Whatarewegoingtodoooo??!!”

“Is that Notre Dame???”

At that moment a barrage of lights and sirens went off in front of her. Big yellow arrows flashing and pointing Kerry off the current thorough-fare and up a side road. She had no option but to steer the van, trailer and loaded digger off up this new route which was a severe hill taking her away from her current disastrous ordinance choice.

It was a good job she wasn’t asthmatic at that moment because her heart was already pounding and breath was hard to come by. It was with sweaty palms she drove up this exit, looking left and right for a way out of her predicament. But unable to change course she was faced with – as it turned out – a severe incline of Everest proportions stretching away before her.

“Oh. My. Fucking. GODDDDDDDDDDD.”

With the knowledge that she was towing 3 tons of digger behind her, the now flashing remnants of hazard light dangling, swinging to and thro across the front windscreen and Wayne pointing out the Seine off to the right, non of the above were doing her anxiety levels any good at all, faced with the near 75 degree incline before her.

The sat-nav by this point has gone from its calm “Turn left, next right 300 yards” drone, to a hysterical

“Eject! Jesus Christ!! EJECT!! Get the fuck out we’re all going to diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiie!!!!!”

In my own mind, I have an image of two Clouseau-like figures sat in two swivel chairs, at the Parisian traffic control center, completely relaxed monitoring the traffic via a bank of monitors. They will have gone from a complete dough-like postures, draped like limp flags in their chairs, staring blankly at the monotonous mono-chrome images of congestion before them. One will be sat, arms hanging over his head, down the back-rest of his seat, gently blowing raspberries to himself in that, stare-at-a-corner-straight-jacket induced boredom goggle. While his compatriot, no less injected with enthusiasm, is sat in a similar relaxed posture, and by turns, gently sucking a croissant and then a smoking Gauloise.

To suddenly being assaulted by array of flashing lights, pre-nuclear strike strobes in fact, and wailing siren in the tiny room..

They will leap from either chair, leaving them spinning in their wake, as they both run around the small space, crashing into each other in their panic, leaving one on the seat of his pants. There will be a soggy half-eaten croissant spat across the black and white images lit up before them, and a smoking cigarette smouldering in the carpet. One will be frantically wiping the TV’s with his tie, in an attempt to identify the obvious catastrophic emergency, while the other clambers to his feet to run away, only to frantically rattle at the door nob to find it has automatically locked when the sirens went off.

Eventually they identify Kerry and Wayne hitting every low-level warning sign along their current route.

“Oh merde regarder. Ses ces gens anglais encore. La femme avec le grand cheveux! Smashing leur chemin à travers gay Pari! Mon dieu! Ils ont pelle cette fois! Ils ont une pelle putain!!!”

“Oh shit look. Its those English people again. The woman with the big hair!! Smashing their way through gay Pari! My god! They have digger this time!! They have a fucking digger!!!.”

And his compatriot fumbling for the big red button saying,

”
Mon Dieu! Pas encore! Allumer la lumière! Gousse d’ail doux! Obtenir ces fous de la route!!”

“My God! Not again!! Turn the lights on! Sweet clove of Garlic!!! Get these lunatics off the road!!!”

And with a solid Thump Clouseau No 2 hits the emergency exit signs which appeared in front of Kerry guiding her over the road and shut down the siren and lights blaring in the control center.

“Dieu merci pour cela. Nous avons sauver Paris de nouveau mon ami!!”

“Thank god for that. We have save Paris again my friend!!”

And then the fire siren and sprinkler system kicked in to put out the cigarette burning slowly in the carpet…

Kerry in the mean time was currently moving slightly faster than backwards as she traversed at 5 mph up the incline, panting all the way like she had run it herself. It was only when she crwled to the top that Wayne surfaced from his Parisian observations to realize they were not where they should be and traffic was blaring their horns and flashing their lights behind them..

“Jeez KeZ!! Can’t you follow a sat-nav?”

And also sudden realization,

“My Light! My flashy light!!”

Followed by a tip of the head and gentle offer of,

“Would You like me to take over from here and get you home sweet heart?”

At the speed she was going, Kerry had a long moment to stare open mouthed at him whilst framing her reply, before she even had to worry about anything in front of her. A lonnnnnnnnng moment.

Instead she kept her silence. But with a heaving chest and receding near stroke symptons, her look probably said,

“You. Can fuck off mate.”

It would have been small consolation to know 2 traffic controllers were near drowning in a small sealed room filling up with water from an out of control sprinkler…

KEZ n WAYNE

Tex, The Amazing Memory Man…

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It had been a difficult taxi ride home, as I was drunk enough to be unable to remember clearly directions to where I lived. And my wife was certainly no help being worse than I was. It was as I swayed outside my front door at 2 in the morning, with my wife propped against me, trying to make a key hit one of the 3 locks I could see. Closing one eye only narrowed it down to 2. Then the realization had struck me.

I had just arrived home, definitely the very worse for wear after returning from the evening celebrations of Gill’s wedding, the daughter of my friend Tex who I’ve mentioned before in Fred West The Carpet Layer.

Along with my wife, Jane and I, he had invited Jonny Moonshine and a friend Mark I had grown up with. We were a regular drinking gang and used to meet every-other Friday for a beer and a catch-up. The hotel was a lovely affair in Castleton, in between Manchester and Oldam, and the main room had been hired for the evening reception.

It was a beautiful summer, and I had spent the afternoon sunning myself in the garden, having a couple of cold beers and a relaxing read. I was looking forward to the evening and had already spoken to Tex to see how the day had gone. I think he was nervous but happy that things had run smoothly.

I was due to pick up John en-route to the venue, meeting Mark there. I have worked with Tex a fair few times over the years, and saw him on a regular basis. I’d known him from being 9 tears old, when we moved round the corner from him. Our garden ran the length of the adjacent 3 houses and my dad had converted one of the garages into a workshop at the bottom end of the garden.

Tex had done the same to his garage and his backed up to the side of my dads. Tex always knew when my dad was on a roll working in there, because all he’d hear was Bruce Springsteen thumping out. And when my dad had heard Tex machine wood he had stuck his head over the fence to have a chat about work. The end result being Tex eventually started working with us. Just as I began serving my time as an apprentice joiner.

Tex is always good company. Always talking and fills the spaces. And with work he’s meticulous with detail. Preparation being all. Always neat. Tidy. This is reflected in his personal presentation. Clean and tidy. Shaved each day, with a trimmed moustache. And as long as I’ve known him he’s had that moustache. Not a normal, plain moustache.

It’s a bristler.

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When a normal person is a bit indignant, annoyed or happy, the emotions are standard fare planted on their faces.

Tex’s has a moustache which adds to his facial expressions. It tends to reflect whatever mood he’s in. I don’t think he realizes. Its up, down or bristling, going which-ever way his lip takes it. Happy, sad, shock, indignation, angry… Every shape his mouth makes as circumstances dictate, his moustache is an extension of that current situation. It actually works like a 3rd eyebrow..
Its a very visual attachment on his face and adds gravitas to almost every expression he has. He’d look naked without it.

He always has something to talk about. Its like every day is a lesson in information when your in his company. He as an eclectic memory, and relates every story to you with a whole list of additional information and side-trips into other tales before finally getting back on track with the original train of thought.

The main thing with Tex is names. He remembers a persons whole name. I struggle to remember first names. Shit. Some days I can’t remember mine. When Tex is telling you some story from his past, he’ll tell you about a certain person and I think he knows their first, last, middle and confirmation names. And the names of the that persons dog. A conversation could go something like this.

“Saw Old Billy Mcglocklin the other day. Still going. He used to deliver meat to all the big hotels in town. Billy used to drink in the conservative club. Liked a pint of stout before a game of snooker. Said it worked like ballast. Always ordered in 3 pints just before the bell for last orders at 11. Would order a taxi for quarter past and down the last pint and be walking out the door to climb in it at 14 minutes past. Lived on Broadway. By that butchers. You know George? George the butcher? Had a brother called Albert? George lived down Crab lane, No 4- no No 5, off Swan Street?. Was a miner for 18 years before he started in the butchers. Married to Mary. She used to be a Finnerty before she married George. Then she became a Flannigan. Always said she preferred being a Finnerty. Didn’t sound so Irish she said. Don’t know if I agree with that mind. Well Billy went to school with her dad, Albert. Years ago mind. You know Albert? Albert Finnerty?….”

And the mustache would work along with the stories.

Bristling.

Eventually he would stop for breath, and you would be able to throw a question in that you had being trying to hold onto from about ten minutes ago. If, that is, you could remember what the start of the story was about.

Tex could have told you though.

It was the same with street names. He will tell you a tale about a job and you’d be able to drive there yourself by the end of it. There’d be some verbal side trips off to another place, as he’d remember something else mid-way through what he was explaining about, and you wouldn’t get back to the end of the original tale till you’d travelled to Wales, fished a beach, then travelled back (M56/M60 junct 18 etc) to, “Oh aye, that job over in Didsbury.”

And then know enough about it to be able to do the job yourself..

His ability to remember information is unbelievable. Someone could explain something to me and I’d be out the door ten minutes later and be stood there bewildered, wondering,

where was I?/how had I got there?/and wtf is this leaflet in my hand about improving my memory???

Tex is the most informative person I know. I’m extremely close to him and think of him like a 2nd dad. He’s one of the few people in this world I’d think of first to confide in if I had a problem.

I’d have made myself comfortable when he stood up to make the father-of-the-bride speech is all I’m saying.

He’s fantastic company and as your coming to understand, has so many tales to tell. And he can’t move on in a story until he’s nailed down an elusive name that’s on the tip of his tongue. So he be circling round the tale, not moving forward until he suddenly snatches the missing name from a distant memory, and everyone can take a breath again.

You wouldn’t want him as your pilot. He’d have a moment of hesitation, where he knew he could see the airport, but would be sure he had forgotten something, and would be patting his pockets and couldn’t land until he finally remembered what it was. There would be some flights you’d be circling round on fumes until you finally land and taxi to a stop on the runway. (And Breeeeeathe)

Anyway. Back to it.

We eventually arrived at the venue having collected Old john on the way. We met mark and went in to find a table and get settled in.

“I’ll get the first round in.” I offered.

We got the drinks in and made our way into the room, muted lighting and already busy with people who had been at the main event during the day. Sitting down at a table, covered in a lovely table-cloth with a flower arrangement and candle lit, we settled in and took stock.

Everybody had obviously had a good day. Its always stressful for the bride and groom, just the sheer nerves of the day. But it looked like they were finally able to relax and enjoy the evening. We managed to say hello to Gill and her new husband Pete, congratulating them both, then briefly catch up with Tex who was still up in the air but enjoying himself.

We carried on talking amongst ourselves, taking turns to buy a round. Then I started to complement the round with a shot of Vodka, from the bottle I had brought along. In the end we were just buying cans of redbull to add to it. Jonny Moonshine slid out his hip flask and began to compound the situation by adding his trademark Tennessee Potcheen. Which had an alcohol content of some where around dropping a hippo, just shy of killing it.

Definitely comatose level.

As you can imagine, things became unsteady. Old john seemed to be on a mission. Mark on the other hand had caught the eye of an attractive woman and had reigned in his drinking in an attempt to be able to communicate with her. Jane, who normally just doesn’t drink, seemed to be going for gold. I should have known things were heading in the wrong way when she demanded to dance with me when a slow number came on.

“S’dance. S’go dance. Now!”

Now normally I’m the last person she’d want to dance with. As I only dance from the belly button up. Everything below that point kind of becomes glued in place. Have you ever watched a football game with one of those wind-blown, tubular figures behind the goal, with air blowing through the torso so it stands upright? But really, the only parts that really move are the arms that are waving around its head like some sort of demented Mexican wave.

Yeah. That’s me.

Not that Jane cane write home about her dancing. But, well, I wouldn’t want to dance with me.

So I should have known she was blind drunk by that point.

Getting to the dance floor was an achievement all by itself. We were both weaving our way over to the crush, and I think our drunken staggering took us off in opposite directions of each other at one point. We were of the same mind you understand. But no actual coherent hand-eye co-ordination. And it was only by fortunate pin-balling off people in the direction we each took, that we were just plain lucky in bumping into each other on the dance floor.

Because, much as I love my wife, at that point I’d have clung to the bride if she landed in front of me.

We managed to get a firm grip on each other and gently swayed along to the slow tune.

What I believe happened next was, we actually fell asleep, each one slumped, propping the other upright. Because I suddenly came to with a start, with no-idea how many songs later, with the music half-way through some high tempo, Bee-Bop tune, and with bodies bouncing around our gently swaying postures.

Obviously it was time to go.

We made our way to the taxi’s outside and I’m still unsure how we got home.

It was there, at the front door that I suddenly realized we had forgotten Jonny Moonshine.

“Ohshiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!!Ohshitohshitohshit!!”

What could I do? There was no way I could leave my wife. I couldn’t walk straight myself. Ah well. I’m sure he would understand. How drunk was he anyway? Nahhhh. He’d be finnnnnnne.

I was too drunk to worry over-much and I say with a little shame it didn’t take me long to go to sleep.

The next day dawned painfully. I took myself downstairs and made coffee. Lots of coffee. I was probably on my 3rd cup before I began to seriously sort out what had happened last night.

“oh shit! John!”

I was straight to the phone.

“Hello? John? Oh thank Christ for that! You OK? I’m reeeeeally sorry about last night John. Can’t apologize enough. You get back alright?”

As I connected with John and Mark that day, I managed to piece back together what had happened and they filled me in on their side of the evening.

Mark had spent the evening with the young lady, staying reasonably sober, even, arranging a date. John on the other hand was near paraletic. To the point of Mark realizing Jane and I had left, going in search of him to make sure he was ok.

He eventually found him in the men’s toilet, feeling his way around the walls. John unable to competently find the exit, had decided it was a process of elimination and was working his way around the toilet by feel alone. Along the wall, into then out of the first cubicle, into then out of the next and so on. Reasoning that one of these doors would lead to sanctuary.

Mark came across him just as he was feeling his way across the urinals.

Anyhow, it was a case of putting him in a taxi and sending him home. John told me the next day,

“The only thing I remember, and I have the bruise to show it, was trying to focus and lean forward to put my key in the front door. Only I completely missed and went head first into the bottom panel and nearly head-butted my way through it…It bloody hurt I know that.”

Jane didn’t even get out of bed the whole of the next day.

I know 3 things with confidence out of all this. Tex, would have taken a deep breath through his nose, and squared his shoulders, his moustache rising and bristling as he did so, and he most certainly would have remembered his way out of the toilet – for sure.

And, he’d have remembered his own street – definitely.

But, he sure as fuck, would have remembered Jonny Moonshine.

drunk

Caravanning With Deano

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“Deanooooo!!”

I shouted in delight at the figure ambling into the site entrance. I had just spent a previous 4 weeks working in Bangor, Wales, on what was then an Abbey National refurbishment. With Bob for the first couple of weeks, then finishing the last couple on my own. And finally following Bob down to this job in Birmingham.

Its not that I minded working on my own, but working on my own, away from home with nobody to bounce off can become monotonously boring. And I was a little stir crazy by the time I followed Bob down to the job in Birmingham. So when Deano walked through the gates it was like balm on a tortured soul.

I’d first worked with Dean some 12 months previously in his home town, Doncaster up in Yorkshire. Dean was one of only two local lads to work on the job, re-fitting a night club in the center of town. At first I must admit I hardly spoke to him, more my natural reticence to new faces, and the fact that I was so busy on other things. Really, we hardly exchanged a word and I just watched him from a distance trying to decide if I liked him or not.

Dean had a razor sharp wit and could be cutting with it. Utterly dry with his observations. But he also had a sense of pure self mockery and tales he would come out with would often include a lot of self ridicule.

I was working on a raised dance floor at one point and became aware of Deano, who had wandered over, standing like he did, a slight slump in all his movements, half lidded eyes and lazy smile. He always looked laid back and lethargic even, like he chose not to have the energy for anything urgent. I’d never really spoken to him before so carried on concentrating on the work in front of me.

I was routering out sections on the treads of the steps, to fit some lights into the nosings. A router you understand is a sturdy body, in this case about the size of a blender, with a handle either side to grip, a trigger on one handle which when activated, began turning the cutter blade on the underside of the machine. You would lower the machine to the piece of work, pull the trigger and draw the router towards you letting the cutter do its job.

But you had to be careful.

So as Deans presence permeated on my concentration I turned to find him stood watching me, smoking his cigarette, with his head cocked in a contemplative way and the half smile ever present.

“Aye. I had a go on one of those things once.”

“Did you mate?” I asked wondering where he was heading with it.

“Yep. On a dance floor too actually. Had to bluff it a bit. I’d never used one before.”

“Hadn’t you mate? How did you find it? Does a nice job with a sharp cutter doesn’t it?”

“Well, so I’d heard, which is why I bought it. But as I set it down the fucking thing dragged me face down across the floor and machined a big groove in it. But aye, it was sharp as fuck alright..”

And had me laughing and I don’t think I stopped in all the time I worked with him.

We became good friends on that job and I was sad to move onto another when it finally came to an end. I didn’t see him for a while as he had work at home and no need to work away. So it was with a great deal of pleasure that he came strolling onto the job in Birmingham. He had lost some weight too and looked leaner and healthier.

“Deanoo! Looking good pal! How are you? Sight for sore eyes mate! Where you staying??”

“Not sure mate. ‘Av only just arrived. Where the lads digging?”

“Never mind that. You’re staying with me. Room in Bobs caravan.”

I was living on the work site on this job, in Bob the agents old, decrepit 2 bed caravan. I’ve mention Bob briefly in Fred West The Capet Layer. You couldn’t swing a cat in it. It was two seats-come-beds at one end, a sink opposite the door at the other, with room for a cupboard, and in between the door and the immediate bed, a unit and worktop with space for the microwave. Which Dean duly provided. Hello beans and ready meals! Bob had bought himself a new flashy caravan, double the size of his old one. He had abandoned me as a rent payer to his freezing old caravan, and moved all of 12 foot away into his new, warm, boudoir. With shower.

It had been growing steadily colder during the night, and Bobs old caravan leaked heat in such a way that I would have been warmer with the door open. I had even taken to going to bed with more and more clothes on, till it got to the point I was going to bed fully clothed, with my coat on during one particularly bad night. I went to sleep praying to God that I’d wake up in the morning. It was that cold. And when I did wake up, (ThankyouGod) the whole of the inside of the caravan myself included, was covered in frost..

So when Dean said,

“That’s smashing pal. Where can I put my stuff?”

I resisted the urge to say “On top of you when you go to sleep if you want to wake up.” He’d find out soon enough.

“Just chuck it in we’ll sort it later. Blimey! You’ve lost some weight lad!”

“Wellll, bit of a story. Not had much appetite to be honest.”

And he began to fill me in.

He’d finally decided to work away after a recently splitting with his long term girlfriend. He had discovered that she was having an affair with someone at work, a lad 10 years Deans junior. She worked in a local super store as a manager, and this young lad worked on the floor. Dean, obviously wounded had gone to the store, creating a huge scene and confronted the young lad. The lad obviously embarrassed, had denied all involvement and had been left screaming for someone to call the police, when Dean in his rage had grabbed the lad, and proceeded to drag him by the throat around the store like a rag doll. With various people hanging onto him trying to get him to release the half-throttled boy.

“As it turned out,” continued dean, “It was the wrong lad. And I half battered him before the police arrived and dragged me off to the cells for the night.”

Not to be deterred from his revenge, Dean then took to hiding in the car park behind the bushes by his ex’s car. Unable to see her from the bushes, he was relying on the sound of two doors opening and closing to confirm she had a passenger in the car with her. Sure enough he heard her approaching the car and a door open then close. Then a second door open and close.

“That’s was it! I knew I had the fucker! As the lights came on, I ran round the bushes as she reversed out and threw my self on the car shouting, “Gerrout you fucker! You’ve had it now!!!”

Only there was nobody in the car with her.

What she had done was get to the car and open the passenger door and throw her bag in. Shut the door, walk round then open the drivers door and get in. In the time it took to start the engine and reverse out, Ghengis Khan had run round the bushes and thrown himself prone like a limpet, on the bonnet roaring.

“And fuck me if she didn’t take off out of the car park with me on the bonnet hanging onto the windscreen wipers for dear life. I’m not kidding mate, she was screaming at me through the window and speeding up! I daren’t let go!”

“Jesus Deano!” I said already laughing. “How did you get off??”

“Not easily I tell you that for nowt! I’m hanging on to the windscreen wipers, so she turn the fuckin things on! Next thing I know, I’m flipping backwards-and-forwards across the bonnet, hanging on for dear life!! She must have realized I wasn’t letting go so she did the only thing she could!”

“Christ, what was that mate?”

“She slammed the anchors on!! From 40 mph to a standing stop! I landed 20 yards further on in the middle of Doncaster high street with one of the wipers in me hand, and half me pants hanging off me arse!”

“And did you catch up with this lad??”

“Jesus! Fuck no! After the police turned up and locked me up again, and charged me with criminal damage – wtf was I ‘sposed to hang onto? – I decided to call it a day. So here I am. Away from it all getting my life in order.

So we were back together again for the next 4 months. At the end of that time I had to finish working away and go back home as my wife was due with my daughter Holly. It was a good time. One wind up after another. Dean managed to set me up by watching my washing routine.

There was no shower block yet on site and I had taken to setting up in an old mop cupboard on the far side of the job. We were converting an old Sainsbury’s home base into a bingo hall. So you have an idea of the scale of the building. I would go over, lay paper over the filthy floor, set up a site fluorescent light and lay out my clean clothes ready to put on as soon as I was dry. Because speed was imperative as the only water available was cold. Cold water. In November. But 3 days was as long as I could stand with out a full body wash, then I’d crack and have to get soaped down. So I’d strip off, down to my birthday suit, start the tap running, take a breath then throw water over me till I was wet enough to get a lather with the soap. Then as quick as possible, lather up then wash it all off again, get dry and dressed and to say it was invigorating, would be an understatement.

Only this time, and this is who I believe was responsible, Dean had had the pipe fitter cut the feed to the mop room. So I set up lights, laid paper, stripped off, ran the tap and threw water all over myself. Turned the tap off while I lathered up, then, shivering, turned it on to wash the soap off again. Only to watch the final amount of water that remained in the pipes, trickle out..then stop.

While I stood, bollocko, squinting through soap, not quite believing this was happening till the penny dropped.

“Oh. Oh you fucking fucker! Wait till I….just wait! DEANOOOO!! You Yorkshire bastard!”

I managed to put some pants on and grabbed what I could and struggled off to the toilet block, some 300 yards distant, tripping over my laces the whole way. Where I had to strip off again, in the freezing air, and wash the remaining soap off.

I paid him back finally when he came back from a night out absolutely rat-legged drunk.

He had taken to partying in a big way, in an effort to get over his ex-girlfriend. He was out a fair few nights and working his way through a succession of girlfriends. This night he staggered in, his normal “I’m at ease in this world” face, half-lidded eyes now quarter lidded, favoring one more than the other in an effort to see straight.

I immediately saw a chance.

“Ok Deano? Good night?”

“Yeahyeah. S’mashin. S’good. bed. Sleep. Need close eyes.”

“Yeah ok mate. Get yourself lay down then.”

And he did just that. Didn’t bother getting undressed. Flat on his back snoring gently in no time.

I couldn’t resist it. I waited, I really did. Then when I was happy he was well away, I took my setting-out, indelible ink black felt-tip pen and drew the best curling mustache, goatee beard and glasses that I could. All the time I was sniggering and trying to suppress giggles by sticking my knuckles in my mouth as I drew.

And when I was done and sat admiring my handy-work, I had to turn the light off for fear I’d wake him up for laughing. And Instead, lay in the dark with my hands over my mouth trying to be quiet.

It took an age to go to sleep.

In the morning I took one look and had to get out. I rushed getting dressed and clattered out the door, throwing a ,

“Come on Deano! Time to get up son!!”

Then fairly ran to the site brew cabin where the other lads were arriving and starting a brew.

I told them briefly what I’d done and when Dean finally surfaced for his coffee, he was met by a wall of laughter as he came through the door.

“What? What is it?” He was asking looking himself up and down.

“What? Am I missing something? Is there something on my chin? What’s that bird done to me??” He said looking down cross-eyed and patting his face.

I must admit here, Dean was that good-natured, he must have known, but was just happy to let me have my moment.

I chalked it up to 1-1 anyway. Twat.

See, this was Dean. Laid back. If it made others laugh even at his own expense, he just didn’t mind. I think he enjoyed people laughing as much as laughing himself.

Finally I had to go home and so ended a great 4 months. Unusual for me because I hated being away from home. I didn’t see him for a while until he phoned me towards the end of that job.

“Deano!! How are you mate?”

“Yeah, fine Mike. Hows the baby?”

“Brilliant Dean. Not sleeping well but we’ll get past that.” (Yeah. 4 years later..) “How are you? How’s our caravan??”

“Aw mate! It Gone. Absolutely knackered!”

“What? You mean the cold got too much?”

“No! I mean Its Knackered! In pieces!!”

“What happened!?”

“Well, you know I was seeing that girl? The Copper?”

“Yeah? Got serious did it?”

“Serious? I’ll say serious! She only finished with her boyfriend to go out with me didn’t she! I never even knew until I went home for my week-end off and came back the following Monday. I drove into the car-park and whats the first thing I see??”

“Go-on. What?”

“My microwave. Smashed to pieces!”

“Your joking??!!”

“No mate! And that was the least of it! I turned to where my caravan was parked up and it was gone!”

“Gone?! Someone nicked it??”

“No mate! Someone had rolled it – and I don’t mean by the wheels – I mean rolled it over and over. It was smashed to fuck!”

It turned out, that this girl he had been dating had a boyfriend whom she promptly dumped to start seeing Dean. Only this ex-boyfriend was that bit more persistent where Dean had seen sense. He had waited for the site to empty for the week-end then climbed over and rolled Deano’s caravan over and over in the car park, shedding the interior as it went. Until it was literally smashed to bits and pieces.

“So I’ve moved in with Bob.” he finished.

Of course. I laughed. More, probably, than I did with the felt-tip.

Unfortunately I lost touch with Dean as family life took precedent. The last time I saw him was at my dad’s funeral and I’ll never forget the effort he made to get there.

Because, that was just Deano.

Finally, I hadn’t see Dean for a couple of years until my mum went on holiday.

My mum met a Yorkshire lad on holiday in Greece and like she does, she asked him 500 questions and got round to asking him where he was from. It turned out he was from Doncaster. And you need to understand my mum to realize she’ll talk to anyone. I mean, ANYONE. She’s has a natural talent of putting people at ease, and she will be gossiping away about something, that some total stranger will suddenly realize they have in common with her. She’s the only person I know who can go anywhere and know someone. So, like she does, when she found out he was from Doncaster, the very first question she asked was,

“You don’t know Dean (we’ll call him Smith) do you”

Bear in mind Docaster has a population of 60,000 and counting.

And do you know what this lad said?

I can see you know how this pans out.

“Blimey! I do as a-matter-of fact!”

And that’s how I managed to briefly get back in touch with him.

Until I moved house. Lost my damn contacts book and lost any contact I had with my good friend Deano.

But I’ve never forgotten the times I spent with him where I can honestly say I laughed every day.

Where ever you are mate, I hope it’s all gravy.

A Starfish On Snowdon

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starfish3

You may have read about my friend Dave who I ride regularly with, covering the miles on our road bikes. ( see Tramline Dave)

I’ve known Dave for a number of years and shared the highs and lows of kids football. Often bending each others ears as we both stressed over our boys struggling through the mine field of junior football, striving towards playing club football. We first met when our lads both played for the same Sunday team, moving on to setting up our own team (Shawstars) and having the most fantastic season. It wasn’t just the huge successes we experienced on the pitch, but the satisfaction of watching a team of boys gel together. And the experience of places and environments they otherwise wouldn’t have had. It has to be said that Dave was the driving force behind all of these various adventures they were lucky enough to encounter and it was through his organization and enthusiasm that they took place.

Dave was the team manager but I was only interested in the coaching side of things. I think we worked well together. We got on, and still get on, fantastically well to this day.

That season went in a blur of games and Dave came up with the idea of ending the successful year with another camping date, having camped during the previous close season before playing a tournament up in The lake District. We Had had a fantastic time, so the idea of having a weekend camping up at Snowdonia in Wales and rounding it off by walking up Snowdon itself appealed to everyone. Even more so to those who had been unable to attend the previous trip and heard all about it.

Steve, the club chairman and I, spent a busy Thursday evening shopping in Asda, stocking up on all the food we could think of that the boys would need to eat or drink for the weekend. Sugar played a big part. We departed the following day, driving up in a scattered convoy of parents and kids, to meet at the venue, a camp site at the foot of Snowdon.

Everyone was in high spirits and we set up the tents straight away, helping each new arrival to erect theirs as they turned up.

The next thing to get going was the BBQ. You just can’t beat that open air cooking and the smell of burgers and sausages floating about. One of the parents had brought up a brazier, and it was duly loaded with wood from the 3 bags I’d brought with me ready to burn as the evening grew colder. As you can imagine, a few beers were opened and consumed – only to compliment the food you understand.

The brazier was lit and it seemed to transfix the boys. They spent the rest of the night adding fuel to it and hovering, waiting for the opportunity to add more. I think if they had had their way we would have had an enormous bon-fire and all the wood thrown on in one go and lit. I don’t know what it is with young lads and fire. They would have burned anything.

And I mean, anything they could have gotten hold of. Really. Anything. Cars. Tents. Sheep. Toilet block..

The next day dawned glorious. It was a bright, beautiful sunny day with a wide blue sky framed with the surrounding hills. We could see Snowdon itself in the distance. So after the obligatory group photo we headed off. The group gradually became strung out as we made our way up the lower slopes. We had intentionally tried to pick an easier route as some people had never done any serious walking before, so we attempted to play it safe and make sure everybody made it to the top comfortably. Some people were fitter than others and marched on. Those that were feeling a little tender from the previous night automatically gravitated towards the back of the group, and I like to think this was the most entertaining part of the assembly. After all. I was there..

SNOWDEN 23.5.10 116

Anyway, as the walk progressed the distance grew between the front-runners and those of us who were Sunday-strolling at the rear. It was an incredibly hot day and it began to take a toll. Dave and I were walking with Wayne and our boys. We had known Wayne for a long time and he had always thrown himself into whatever we were doing with the team. I know he loved all the times we spent away with the boys. Well Wayne was slowly but surely beginning to struggle with the climb. And we had reached a point where it had become more-or-less vertical.

There was a climb of some 200-300 foot to get up. Having walked up the lower valley and swung around to face Snowdon, we had eventually reached this point where the going became quite arduous. The heat wasn’t helping Wayne at all. And this was reflected by his completely bald head and the permanent sheen of sweat that was dripping off it. We were literally stopping every 30 steps or so to allow him to get his breath and his colour really didn’t look good at all. Even the boys were becoming a mite concerned.

Although, from the boys point of view, I think their main concern was the fact that,
A. They were at the back.
B. This man was struggling and really slowing them down.
C. He could die
D. The other boys would get back to the camp before them at this rate and burn anything that was left to burn.

Waynes tent probably if it looked like he wasn’t going to make it.

I must admit though, I was getting worried myself with each stop we made left Wayne gasping for breath. Dave and I were sharing looks of concern and I know what he was thinking so decided to act.

“listen. I’ll head on up in front and warn the others. Take the boys with me. I’ll get Wayne a place on the train going back down.”

Better I abandon Wayne to Dave before the bastard did it to me I thought.

And seeing the look on Daves face I knew I’d done the right thing. He had probably been timing it to make his abandoning Wayne and I look more acceptable.

“Hoooo-noooo my friend.” I had a smidgen less shame than Dave you see. If Wayne was for collapsing let Dave give him the kiss of life.

In the mean time, Wayne was trying to fire a chocolate muffin down his neck, and wash it down with water in the firm, if misguided belief that it was going to have instant results.

“‘eah. ‘ood idea. I just ‘eed to get some fuel down me neck. Have a rest for a minute -”

Force more chocolate muffin in there.

“- you carry on-”

Glug water on top of muffin.

“- Trains a great idea. Don’t think I’ll make it down walking. I’m ‘ucked.”

“Whoooa! Hang on pal-” Dave..

“Yes! Your bang on Wayne. Least I can do. I’ll just scoot on up to the top and get it sorted! Come on boys. With me! left foot first now!!”

“Whooooa! Just a fuckin min-” Dave…

I was becoming a bit frantic in the haste to be away and desert Dave and Wayne, before Dave could put up a more serious objection.

“Yes! Best get it sorted! You may need a helicopter calling in at this rate!! Ha! Yes a helicopter ride! You’d like that Dav- I mean Wayne! ” I added looking square at Dave with a smile as I hustled the boys on up the path.

I’m sure Wayne was thinking, “What a fella. Doing this for me” as I headed off.

“Phone me if there’s any problems!”

I called over my shoulder, Which I’m sure Dave would. Many colourful things. knowing as well as I did there wasn’t much of a signal to be had for any mobile phones.

I looked back briefly once to see Dave helping Wayne back to his feet and watched Wayne gesture weakly that he “Needed fuel. And water. Please god.” Then Dave started shoo-ing him on up the slope and I quickly turned away before he could try and attract my attention.

“Will my Dad be ok Mike?” asked Waynes son

“Yeahhh. No worries lad. He’ll just be a bit thinner though.”

“Not eating all that chocolate cake he won’t.”

So on we went until we reached the end of the serious climb and it leveled out into a much more manageable walk. It was easier to breathe again and as soon as Wayne reached this point it would be a more comfortable trip for him.

You can imagine my surprise when my phone actually rang some 30 minutes later, and I fumbled it from my pocket to see Dave’s name lit up, and turned to looked back down the slope to see where they were as I answered it.

“He’s on the fuckin floor pal!!” Said Dave immediately upon hearing my voice. “Flat out. Can’t get him up!!”

I finally spotted Dave, a distant figure, speaking urgently down the phone, with his other hand cupped over the mouth piece, walking to and thro around Wayne, who was lay like a star fish on the floor.

“Give him some fuel mate. Give him some chocolate muffin. He seems to like that. And some water! Give him some water!!”

“I can’t!! He already ate the fucking lot!! And I don’t have any water left because he drank it all trying to wash the muffin down!! And then he just threw it up all over the shop. He been heaving like a professional bulimic, then he’s flopped on the fuckin floor. WTF am I going to do???”

“Well first of all you need to calm down mate. Calm down.”

“What do you mean you bastard, calm down! Calm down??”

And his voice actually went up a couple of octaves showing. Clearly. I was the much calmer person here. I felt like putting my hands on my hips and striking a pose. I can only say my calmness was a reflection of my much faster thinking and inclination to abandon Dave and Wayne. I know he was just wishing he had done it first. I was also 30 minutes further up the slope and closer to salvation.

SNOWDEN 23.5.10 150
(The view Dave would have had of me in the distance when he phoned. Snowdon summit beyond)

There was nothing else for it. When you manage to drop some one else in it, you need to maintain distance and keep a perspective, while reassure them that its not as bad as they think.

“Hahahah! Your fucked mate! I’ll phone the helicoptor for you at the top!!”

And I marched on. We managed to reach the summit, where I have to say it was packed with people. I mean packed out. There must have been 2 or 300 people up there. And as we made our way up the final slope along side the train track, I looked to the right, back the way we had walked and thought it looked so gradual. It completely hid the strenuous climb we had completed.

Then I looked to the left and it was like a slope only a mountain goat would climb. It just dropped away into the opposing valley. And clinging to the side of this vertical rocky face, was a ribbon of a path threading its way up towards us. With people picking their way upwards in single file, as it wasn’t wide enough to do more. And I just thanked god we hadn’t decided to come up that route.

Because I’d have abandoned Dave a wayyyyyyyyyy sooner otherwise.

Dave did make it to the top with Wayne making a herculean effort to get there. And we left him there to rest looking pasty and weak, to gather his strength, while we began the descent down a much easier path into the town Llanberis. Wayne would travel down on the train as Steve, who was the only one sensible enough to ride up the much more relaxing route, on the train, had given up his seat to rescue Wayne. We would collect him on the way back to the camp.

We did have a moment of pause when some 30 minutes after departing the summit, we watched an air-sea rescue helicopter head up towards the summit, and we did wonder if Wayne had taken a turn for the worse. But it turned before it reached the top and hovered over the edge of a lake we had passed on the way down, then turned and headed back over us.

SNOWDEN 23.5.10 007

It took some 2 hours to walk back down in the extreme heat of that day, and it really was hot. The only relief we had was not stressing over whether or not Wayne could manage it. It was nice to finally reach the bottom and head straight for the pub for a well earned pint, sat outside the in the heat of the afternoon, absolutely exhausted..

It must have been by the 3rd pint before anyone remembered Wayne.

“Ohhh shit! Wayne!!!”

We had completely forgotten about him in our rush for a cool pint. He had been waiting some 3 hours to be collected.

Steve jumped up and drove down to the station where the mountain train terminated to find Wayne again, star-fish prone, on the embankment outside. He brought him back to the pub where he managed a cold pint. A lot more leisurely than the bottled water he had been using to try and force the muffin down.

“You ok Wayne? Feeling better?”

I must admit he didn’t look much better.

“Well, I thought I’d just relax on the train, but hadn’t gone 200 yards when I started chucking up out of the side. I can tell you I cleared ALL the seats around me sharpish. Its a wonder that the train didn’t pick up speed and run out of control with everyone sat at the front next to the driver.”

Wayne had spent the whole trip down retching and being sick out of the side of the carriage. Just to add to his misery, when he finally reached the bottom he at first tried sitting patiently, then gave up and just spread-eagle himself on the grass in despair, not having the energy to do aught else.

“I’m just glad you finally came for me.”

“Well what else could we do Snowy? We Couldn’t leave you any longer.” Said Scott, another dad on the trip, giving Wayne his new nick-name.

“It was the only thing we could do. It was your round.”

SNOWDEN 23.5.10 101

(Dave and daughter Lucy, at the start. Obviously.)

Fred West The Carpet Layer..

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handcuffs

I spent a number  of years shop fitting and bar fitting.

This type of joinery is a mainly clean and a better quality. And dry.No slogging through mud on a sites, hands numb from lumping half-frozen, wet timber to a plot your working on, tripping over everything because there’s no light to see by.

The shop fitting and bar fitting side tends to be working on night clubs, bars, cinemas, bingo halls, shop chains..a much better environment to work in. The only down side can be it tends to involve working away from home, 7 day weeks, 12 hour days or even nights.

I worked for one firm in particular for around 5 years on and off. I’d spend something like 8 months or so, working away, home every 2nd weekend, until I reached a point when I just needed to be at home. I’d just miss my wife and kids too much. Then I’d get work closer to home until that dried up then go back working away..

One job in particular I worked on, in Liverpool, in a place called Huyton. It was a new build large Bingo hall. It was basically a new empty structure, somewhere on the scale of a super market, just ready to be fitted out with bars, podiums, seats and decoration.

I started working on there with my dad and Tex, a joiner I’ve spent a large part of my working life working with on and off. We used to take turns sharing the driving and fuel in travelling to and from the job each day. Others on the job I’d worked with before were some scouse lads, Terry and Gary, 2 brothers. Terry I’d worked with on a number of jobs for the same firm and had had some real belly laugh moments with him. He had a habit when he was sharing a bit of gossip, of speaking out of the side of his mouth, like a scouse version of Popeye. His eyes would be scanning his surroundings while he was shiftily divulging his current tit bit, to make sure nobody else was near enough to hear. Adding to this was Terry’s other 2 brothers, Joe and Paul who then brought their brother-in-law George into the mix. It was really like a family gathering at that point.

Another feature on the job was the table tennis. We would organize a competition during break times. The idea was to get Bob the foreman playing who was incredibly competitive and would do almost anything to win. What Bob didn’t know was we pre planned his turn to play, then who ever was playing him would let him win so that these brew times became longer. He would drop his bat to the table on winning a match point and strut around with his arms in the air on winning. Again.

I’m sure with Queens “We are the champions” going through his head.

And it would be,

“Aww. Bollocks. You win again Bob! I don’t know how you became so good. I (Whoever was playing) just can’t compete!”

Whilst everyone else would congratulate Bob and jeer at the current loser…

“I knew you’d win again Bob! Yeah! You whupped that a loser!! Blimey, no holding you back Bob!! Like a machine!!!”

And this would go on each time he played. The only time it really got seriously competitive was when bob couldn’t take part. Then it was brutal. No mercy. People would be limbering up before a game. Press ups and sit up all over the place! There were bats getting flung down and ping-pong balls stamped on in fury! In particular, the competitiveness between the brothers was intense in the extreme. A couple of time the bats would be thrown down and the lads would be nose-to-nose squaring up over some taunt or dropped point.

“You dirty cheatin’ bastard ya!”

“Who you callin’ a cheatin bastard? Lost again and spittin ya dummy out! You always was a girl – even when you were a kid! You even threw like a girl!!”

“Who you callin a fuckin girl?? Here-” Bat thrown at other brother “- Does a fuckin girl throw like that ya twat??!!”

Then it was “Whoooooooaaaaaaaaaa!! Calm down lads! Its only a game! Lets not fall out ffs!”

“He called me a girl! Wanker!!”

“Who you callin a wanker??”

table tennis

Jesus. And off they’d go again. We spent more time getting between the brothers. We had to spend time fiddling the draws so they didn’t play each other. Trouble was they were more competitive and unfortunately, better than the rest of us, so it wasn’t long before they were playing each other anyway, with the inevitable fall outs that followed.

It cost a fortune in Ping-Pong balls.

Another feature on the job was a local character known as Tony Beep Beep. An utterly pleasant lad. Aorund 20 years old when I came across him. He obviously had his own issues but was always smiling and would stand in the central reservation on the main road shouting,

“BEEP! BEEP!”

And give a thumbs up to passing cars. He was like a scouse road runner. He was made up when cars beeped their horns back at him in reply.

We first noticed him while we were sat in the cabin having a brew and talk gradually died as we suddenly became aware of this young lad, nose pressed against the window, with a slightly manic grin and megawatt stare. And as everyone turned to look who it was, he suddenly stuck 2 thumbs up and went,

“BEEP BEEP!!”

“Who. The fuck is that??” asked Bob the foreman.

“Beep beep mate!” Terry shouted back

“Aw ‘ey lad,” he said to Bob, “Thats just Tony Beep Beep.”

And proceeded to explain about him.

“The kids harmless. Just gets a kick out of beeping at the traffic. No worries.”

So Tony would wander onto the site car park shout “Beep beep!” a few times, give the thumbs up, then someone would take him in hand and lead him off again.

“Come on Tony lad, Can’t be wandering around on here son.”

It finally came to a head when we were coming out of the cabin to find him reversing the unknowing contracts manager into a parking spot.

“Come on mate! Come on! Beep beep! Come on! Come onnnnnnnnn-” Crunch. “Aw ‘ey mate, you’ve hit that bollard!”

And off he ran.

Alan jumped out of his car to inspect the damage then turned to watch Tony galloping off. He wasn’t happy.

“Who the fuck was that?? I thought he worked for us when he started parking me up! I was over there -” he gestured to the other side of the car park, “And he shouted me over here and started guiding me in!! Who was that??!!”

“That’s Tony beep beep Alan. On your way out give him a honk on the horn as you pass. You’ll see him in the middle of the road beeping at traffic. It’ll make his day mate….”

“Keep him off this fucking site!”

So that was the last we saw of Tony unless we passed him on the way home where he would be stood, turning either way, grinning, thumbs up and beep-beeping everyone good enough to honk their horns at him.

He was a well known character in the area. I can’t begin to tell you how saddened I was to later hear he was killed in a hit and run. He was a quite vital personality. For his obvious problems, I’m sure its a face that’s missed by many.

The other notable person on the site was Fred West the carpet layer.

Not the Fred west obviously, (Mass Murderer)but a doppleganger who was working on site. And I mean, he was a double of Fred. Which is how he earned his nickname. It wasn’t hard winding him up either. He was bad tempered most of the time and the nickname just aggravated him to new heights.

“Fred, you need to move your rolls of carpet mate.”

“Don’t call me Fred! You know I don’t like it!!”

“Come on Fred, just kidding pal!”

“DON’T CALL ME FRED!!”

So as you can imagine. Everyone called him Fred. Brew time Fred. Sugar Fred? Home time Fred..

Fred finally flipped when he unrolled a carpet to find a missing corner. It was something tiny, like a 4 foot by 2 and a half foot piece. And something that small off a roll of carpet 6m x 12m was nothing. It’d be lost in the waste.

Fred was apoplectic. Going off like a volcano.

“That’s fucking IT!!! I’m getting the police in! Called me fuckin Fred once too fuckin often!! Now you’ll be sorry! Ohhh yes! So sorry!!”

And off he marched to the site office. Where, Bob made him sit him down and cool off. Explaining what a fool he was making of himself. Inside nobody took any notice. Fred was always upset. Really, he was just lining himself up for more aggro by making a ridiculous issue.

My dad had other ideas though. He wandered over to where I was working for a quiet word.

“Tex had the carpet. ” He murmured.

“Its in the boot of the car. Cut it off first thing and stuck it in. Its for his porch on the front of the house. Going to wind him up. Pop over in ten, I’ll have him cooking by then. Just jump in and fan the flames.”

So I waited for ten minutes or so before heading over to find Tex sweating already.

“Jesus. have you heard? Freds phoned the police! What are we going to do?”

“What do you mean we? I haven’t nicked some carpet! How do you know he phoned the police anyway?

“Your dads just told me. Fred’s had a rant and shot off to see Bob in the office. Went to phone the Busies!”

And, I still can’t believe this, as he said it, we all turned to look across the site to the entrance on the opposite side of the building. And as we did, a lone copper walked in, took a good look around and walked out again.

“Ohhhhhhfuck.” moaned Tex, visibly wilting.

I looked over his head at my dad with eyebrows raised but he just shrugged helplessly and shook his head. He had no idea why a copper was here either. It was heaven sent.

“Shit Tex! They’re here for you! Christ that was quick! What you going to do?? How far can you run????”

“I don’t know!! Awwwwwshiiiit!”

And it went from there. We gradually included other people into the set up, telling Joe and George. I took them to one side and just said,

“Pop over, tell Tex the police have had you in the office over the carpet. keep him sweating.”

By this point mind it was mid afternoon and Tex really had been sweating on it most of the day. Normally he would bring a sandwich box into work, with the mantra of eating “small but often”. This involved carrying round a sandwich box that would feed an infant school, from which he would have something to eat at each break. At this point Tex had been unable to bring himself to eat anything. Going various shades as each piece of new development was brought to him by different people during the day.

Joe and George jumped on their chance with relish.

“Aw ‘ey lad! They’ve had us in the office!” began Joe.

“Yeah! And their only going to charge us! Said we were last seen near it!”

“Yeah! Said we nicked it! That’s racism against Scousers that is!”

“Your goin to have to come clean Tex!”

You could actually see Tex looking to the heavens mouthing “Thank you God” then.

“Your just going to have to take the rap lads!”

I must admit there was a moments breath-taking pause, as everyone looked at each other as they realized he was throwing Joe and George to the dogs. Then the rest of us just started laughing.

“Fuck me Tex! Your goin to let them do us?? We’re innocent though!!” Shouted George

“Yeah!! That’s racism that is!!” Threw in Joe.

Whilst I couldn’t resist,

“Whooaaa Tex! Jesus! That’s a bit raw mate! No half measures there then! Fuck ya’s all! Your going down! I love it!! You’re bolloxed boys! Tex just sold you down the river! You’ll be in the Chokey before tea-time!!!”

And it went like that till Tex finally had to admit what he was sweating over.

The week before he had been shopping in Asda and spied an electric planer. Having a good look at it he realized the price tag was loose. As were the price tags on other items. So with a bit of careful maneuvering, he swapped price tags.

Saved himself a few bob.

Where it all went wrong was as he went through the till to pay. When asked if he wanted the warranty on the new tool he replied “yes”. So the girl offered him the paper work, he filled in his name and address..

The police knocked on his front door about an hour later.

“So I can’t lads! I’m up in court next week! If I get done for this, I’ll be up shit creek without a fucking canoe, never mind a paddle!!!”

Everyone was left momentarily goggled eyed and open-mouthed in amazement, until it finally erupted in laughter at Tex’s predicament.

“Its not funny!! I’m in the shit here!!”

So while it was extremely entertaining we finally had to tell him it was a wind up.

Strangely enough he kind of deflated and slid down the wall…

Ginger Delight..

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Just told he's Ginger

I love quiet.

An Absence of noise.

I  worked in the Lake District on the flood damage to Cockermouth, Keswick, Egremont and Coniston back in 2010, from December – April. And the first thing you notice is the quiet. No traffic in close season. Its a different case when the summer kicks in mind. But during the winter months, places can be quite remote. It can be like sitting in vacuum. The only sound you hear is what you create your self.

Driving was a pleasure. You wouldn’t see anything behind you early morning. Something would pass in the opposite direction intermittently, but bar that it was a wonderful place to be. When I finally returned to Manchester to work, months later, the stress levels shot back up and it took a couple of weeks to acclimatize to the volume of traffic. Every car behind me felt like it was tailgating me, pushing me along. And everyone was so impatient to get somewhere.

Whilst in the Lakes, though, I was fortunate enough to be staying in a lovely B&B run by a couple of geordies who were the most unobtrusive, genuinely kind people  I was lucky enough to meet.

Graham and Gina. (Bacon to die for and the best poached eggs ever)

And Graham was one of those people who inspired you with his own experiences with human nature.

There was a picture on the wall of the dining room which showed Graham and another person, leaning on an Old Land Rover somewhere far away and dry. The sky looked hot and the ground had that dusty, sandy look to it.

When I asked about it he began to explain. Years previously he and his brother had bought an old, ex-council land rover, fitted it out, and driven from Newcastle and right across Africa in it. And the thing that stayed with me is, Graham telling about his experiences of the kindness of people far away, who were desperately poor, and who had nothing.

As I admired the Photos on the dining room wall, he began,

“D’ya know what? For everything you hear about these 3rd world countries being dangerous, They’re made up of people incredibly poor, who, will drop everything to help a completely alien face they don’t know.”

He continued,

“We wrecked our axle on the Land Rover, in the middle of no-where. Completely stranded. No way of getting anywhere. And suddenly people just appeared. Just materialized. And without any prompting they set-to sorting the jeep out. And they strapped a great fuckin log to the axle and it worked. Got us to the next point on our travels where we could repair and carry on.”

And he paused for a moment as he looked into his past.

“What I’m getting at here is this. It was humbling. To see these people with nothing just drop what they were doing to come and help 2 complete strangers on their way. People, who meant nothing to them, who were just passing through they’re lives, to somewhere they’d never see…And they didn’t even hesitate. They just helped in any way they could….

I’m a real believer in Karma and I’ll tell you this. Pass it on man. It comes around. “

I think this view he held was evident in all of my conversations with Graham. We do tend to be eyes down in this busy society of ours, chasing unimportant things, we don’t actually need.

Part of the point I’m trying to get at here is, the lovely quiet. Graham was always busy. But I think he lived somewhere that offered an opportunity to think and really put a value on something. Place a level of genuine importance or not.

Made me try and slow down and take a look around me a little bit more.

Graham and Gina, two genuinely lovely people, never intruded, they were just kind. (Harvington House)

And it’s people like that you don’t forget. Kept me sane while I worked away from my family for 4 months.

But, getting back to it.

The Quiet.

The first time we took the kids away abroad was to Ibiza, and I think it was pure luck we landed in the resort we did.

It was a 16 apartment accommodation and it was, silent. One of the most relaxing holidays I’ve been on. beautiful  flower enveloped balconies, full of geraniums. All the sunbeds laid out of a morning with lovely padded mattresses lain on top. Pure comfort. we made some wonderful friends during that holiday and had some fantastic moments. Most notably was the Octopus latching onto one of the kids legs on the edge of the shore.

(Not one of mine I can happily say. So I just took my time getting there)

The child in question, a young was part of a fantastic welsh family, was frantically hopping one legged around the beach, screaming her head off. She was ploughing furrows in the sand, knocking kids sandcastles over, and generally waving her leg around like Zorro on speed, trying to shake this thing off.

While her dad danced around her, shouting,

“Whats occurin’? WHATS OCCURIN’??” with that fantastic welsh accent.

(Think Gavin and Stacey)

He was wild eyed, almost as frantic as the child, with a bucket and spade in either hand, looking for an opportunity to batter the octopus.

“This should be good I thought.” as I strolled over.

I think in the end the octopus just got motion sickness and fell off, and was then catapulted back into the sea some 600 yards out off the spade. It was like a Jaws with suckers moment, and there was a mass exodus from the water as it flew over everybody’s head.

The other memory is having a sit down meal in by the pool in the evening, surrounded by flowers, clear blue sky with the day gradually cooling down. We pulled an assortment of tables and chairs outside and everyone contributing food and beer.

Poor old Nikki added more than was bargained when after one beer too many, (actually she didn’t drink, I think it was just one beer bless her) led to  her chucking up. There was a general scraping of chairs as she cleared an area of 20 square foot.

Then people tentatively came back and patted her on the back as she moaned, suffering in her own world. I think Kev- her husband – just felt cheated she had wasted one of his beers.

Brilliant holiday. we went back the following year to find the caretakers hadn’t been paid for 3 months.

No flowers or understandably, mattresses on the sunbeds, as they were laundered daily. And the company was nothing like the previous year.

Then we went to Skiathos.

You’d be surprised to find I’m a joiner. I work with wood, machining, manufacturing, fixing. All noise.

I think that has something to do with the yearning for quiet.

But Skiathos was wonderful. So quiet and peaceful.

The defining factor of these holidays for me is spending the time with my wife, Jane and my Kids. We would either be at the pool or beach. And if available go on an excursion to a water park or some other trip.

The kids would spend their time playing in the pool with me or some other kids, or snorkel in the sea, dig in the sand and generally just have fun. But it was a tiny complex and extremely quiet.

Perfect.

Our next door neighbours were a family of 5. Mum, dad, 3 kids, one of whom had fantastically ginger hair.

Enter Giles.

I mean. Come on. Not satisfied with the trials the poor kids going to face in life with his orange noggin, they added to it by calling him “Giles”.

Giles just doesn’t suit an 11 year old. It doesn’t fit the shape. It’s too “Hawhaw” and old for him. And every time he was shouted,

“Gillllllllllllllles!!!”

He would appear, like orange lightening. A blur of tangerine every time he ran past you. He was like a wiry Orangutan. It actually scorched the eyes as he whipped by and made them water.

I thought initially every time I saw him coming from the corner of my eye, that someone was throwing a large Satsuma, as he exploded past me.

We never actually socialized with the parents, but the kids all got on well. And when it became too hot, took to playing in a games room where there was a large plastic Wendy house, pool table and various toys. This was slightly lower down the hill from the pool, and we could keep an eye on the children while they played, or just hear them if they disagreed.

This particular day we heard a commotion then a Crash and wail of a small child, as the wendy house collapsed.

It turned out Giles had been up to no good stood on the roof, while his younger brother was inside when the structure finally collapsed on top of him.

His dad hauled him off back to the apartment with,

“Your’e bloody grounded Giles! No meal for you tonight! Your staying in my lad!!. No telling you is there??”

(I hasten to add, the on site beautiful open air dining area was opposite the front door of their apartment.)

And that was the last we saw of him for that afternoon and the quiet descended again around the pool with the only noise being the kids quietly playing and laughing, and crickets chirping in the heat.

So, later that evening, kids all showered and dressed, ready to go out and eat, we were sat on the porch, just relaxing having a drink when,

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!”

“Giles!! Pack it in! Deal with it for Christ sake!! That’s all there is to it!!”

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!”

And his father, true to his word, obviously exasperated with the ginger demon, having grounded him was refusing to let him come over to sit down for a meal and was making him stay in. A bit extreme I thought, but obviously a man who carried out his threats. Giles in the mean time just continued throwing himself around the room, shouting and roaring, finally descending into out-right tears.

And for some time we had to sit and listen to the screaming and pandemonium next door. And I must admit, I was slightly put-out to say the least, because the lovely silence was shattered.

My kids were sat huddled around me, wide eyed and obviously frightened, and Jane having finished dressing had come out side,

“What the hell was that all about??”

And I looked down at my goggle eyed children and tried to explain in a way they could understand.

“Its ok kids. Its nothing to worry about.”

And I paused before I continued,

“They’ve just told Giles he’s Ginger.”

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