Anything For The Weekend?

Anything For The Weekend?

 I had my hair cut last week. As you can see from the Little Me (my avatar), I am a little salt n’pepper, in a kind of Clooneyesque kind of way. I wish. I used to hate going to the barbers when I was younger. It was a chore. Well, I was a child of the 70s. In Birmingham. In a family where clothes were knitted by mom and grandma, or handed down from cousin to cousin. I was the youngest boy at this time. Many of my clothes were third hand. I was not exactly fashionable. I was dressed by my mom. These were the days when teenagers were not financially independent. You wore what you were given. What you were told to wear.I wasn’t really into self-image. Indeed, shopping used to be quite an ordeal. I remember once when I was about 12 or 13 and needed new trousers for school. Mom took me to M&S. These were the days before M&S had changing rooms. Mom insisted that I try the trousers on. She made me strip to my undies in the middle of the store: “Go on! No-one is looking at you!”. It was hugely embarrassing. I was beetroot red. Everyone was looking. Especially all the hot girls. Y-fronts. How embarrassing.

Indeed, until I met C, I was never really into clothes or image at all. C is now my fashion advisor. My guru. She is very good at it. She chooses very well for me. I am now Mr Designer Label! Ben Sherman. Ted Baker.

I wasn’t very good at shopping for myself. And, this was made much worse by the fact that I am colour blind. Totally colour blind. Blue/violet; red/green colour blind. I have to concentrate really hard to spot the grid-lines on maps. Or rivers. I once had a major presentation to make to senior bods in the days before C. When I got to the office the girls sent me straight back home. I had a green jacket and blue trousers. I thought they matched. I made it back to the office just in time and colour-coordinated. I got the investment that I was looking for.

On another occasion I got totally confused by a presentation that I was on the receiving end of. I was getting completely the opposite impression to the one that I was expecting. The presentation was using white text out of a blue background. Apart from the key words that is. Words like “not” and “very” and “must”. The key words were in red text. Red out of blue, and totally invisible to yours truly! I blame my grandma. Colour-blindness is carried through the female line.

Anyhow, shopping, when I was a bachelor, involved much reliance upon home shopping from the Next Catalogue – these being the days before the Internet. This had the advantage that “trying on” was a private affair. And, you could send the clothes back if they didn’t fit. And, the lingerie section was always worth a browse…..

In any case, I didn’t really enjoy getting my haircut in my teenage years. But, my attitude to barbers and to haircuts has changed significantly over the years. The change is due in some small part to my increased affluence and in much greater part to the advice, nay instructions of my wife, C. Long gone are the short back and sides with a side parting of my youth and the “just a quick trim and a number three at the back and sides” of my early 20s.

As a teenager, my local barber was selected more on the distance that I would have to walk and, perhaps most importantly, on the physical attributes of the female hair stylists. Getting your hair cut was an opportunity to sit ogling the stylist for the 10 minutes or so you were sat in the chair and the 30 minutes or so that you were sat in the waiting area pouring over The Sun or The Mirror newspaper, waiting your turn. If you were really lucky the stylist would rub against you as she gracefully danced around you with her comb, scissors and clippers. Your excitement was carefully hidden beneath the cape thing that they throw over you, so it was a perfectly safe pastime. The haircuts were shite though. I think the stylists somehow knew…..and this was their way of reaping their revenge.

My current “barbers” is a chic gentleman’s boutique-type place in suburban Cheshire. There are no female stylists, only well groomed men of dubious sexuality. The Sun has given way to FHM, GQ and similar blokey magazines. The styling process takes considerably longer and the wallet is considerably lighter than in the old days back in Erdington. But, I do believe that the hair is looking a lot better. The “rubbing against” fantasy is now less frequent, consigned as it is to the occasional appearance in my life of a dental nurse. Dental nurses, however, have the additional advantage of wearing a uniform!. However, when lying down on a dentist’s chair/couch, it is far, far harder to hide any erection. Thank goodness for the pain, it takes your mind off it somewhat…..

In all my years of going to the barbers I have never been offered “anything for the weekend”. Condoms in the early 80s were still very elusive even at the height of the so-called Aids epidemic. You couldn’t buy them in supermarkets like you can today. I can remember the humiliating experience of buying condoms for the first time for the first attempt at “going all the way” with my then girlfriend. I hovered around the pharmacy counter of the local Boots chemist for an absolute age. I was scanning the shop like a would-be bank robber, checking that there was no one around who knew me. I waited for eons for the OAPs (“Old Aged Pensioners”. I think we call them “senior citizens” now that our own parents have joined the club) to collect their prescriptions or acquire their supplies of blue rinse, germolene and Fisherman’s Friends. How pungent!

Incidentally, there should be separate shopping times, or separate lanes, or separate shops for old people, don’t you think? Especially at Christmas! They have all that time on their hands during the week and then decide to go shopping exactly when you need to. They are so slow and always get in the way. I think that the only reason they do this is because they have all shrunk in size and require the assistance of people like me to retrieve their favourite items from the top shelves. Or, maybe it is just cheaper for them than having to heat their own homes. Maybe it is loneliness or confusion. I am not looking forward to getting old myself.

In any case, I waited until the pretty young sales assistant was free. Pure torture! Why are they always female, pretty and young? I thrust my packet of Durex Extra (ha!) towards her, watched as she slowly, teasingly, placed it in a brown paper bag. Anonymity guaranteed, I don’t think. I thrust my money at her and hurriedly turned on my heels to make my escape. “Don’t forget your change, Sir!” she called after me, loudly. All heads turned. I turned, blushed, grabbed my change and ran with the eyes of every OAP lady and grandmother in Birmingham burning into my back – “we know what you are up to young man…..” 

 

 

 

 

Let’s Be Careful Out There!

Let’s Be Careful Out There!

 

I have recently had a job with responsibility for the security of payment cards and combating fraud. I loved it. I like to think I learned a great deal. I came to the job with almost zero knowledge and left it much better informed, with a huge suspicion and distrust of my fellow man, and of so-called secure technology. It was a huge eye opener.

As a result, I am all in favour of the government’s plan to mark privacy areas around ATMs – holes in the wall. For sure, I will never let that personal space be invaded while I am keying my PIN number. Indeed, I am a bit anal about the whole process of withdrawing money from a cash dispenser. I check for pin-hole cameras. I check for false keyboards. I check for card skimming devices. I check for shoulder surfers (people looking over your shoulder to see what PIN you enter). I check for people with MP3 devices within range. All of these things are widely used to your capture card details and to produce copy or counterfeit cards.

I never let my personal credit card out of my sight – petrol stations and Indian and Chinese restaurants are amongst the most common locations where card details are skimmed. Watch out for waiters who have a cloth hanging from their belt as it may be concealing a card skimmer. Never let them take your card away to pay.

I shred all material containing personal data. I would hate to be a victim of identity fraud. Am I over reacting? No I am not. Fraud is a lot more common than most people would think. You are a lot more vulnerable to becoming a victim of crime than you would think.

Did you know that statistically, 30 to 80% of all job applications contain lies or exaggerations; company employees commit 12% of fraud; management commits 40% of fraud. Who checks your expense claims? Perhaps you should take a closer look at those colleagues you sit with in the office every day. Is he or she a fraudster? How would you tell? Well, the typical profile of a fraudster is someone who does not take holidays, someone who is secretive about business processes, is resistant to supervision, has poor inter-personal skills, has good technical ability, works late, is prone to substance/alcohol abuse, is prone to relationship discord……..Sounds like most of my colleagues. Especially those in the security department. Worrying!

Actually fraud, or rather the impact of fraud, has touched me only fleetingly in my existence to date. And that is as close as I would ever like it to get.

I gave back my first ever company car. I had been so looking forward to my first company car. But, I sent this one back. I refused to drive it. How insensitive of the Company to give me a car that had previously been that of a recently deceased colleague. A recently deceased colleague who had taken his own life. A colleague who had killed himself by attaching a pipe to the exhaust of his company car, passing it through a small gap in a window and sitting in his car in his garage until he breathed no more. This was a lovely guy. He was an experienced sales rep who, just one month earlier, I had shadowed as part of my sales training. Unfortunately he was also a fraudster. He had been caught exaggerating sales in collusion with a number of dealerships for which he was responsible, meaning that they received higher commission payments from the Company than they had been entitled to. He was splitting the additional payments with the dealers. He got caught. The shame of being caught drove him over the edge. Drove him to suicide. He left a wife and two teenage kids. There was no way I was driving that car.

I also know someone who sold her company car. She was a bit loopy at the time.

On another occasion, C and I almost bought a house from someone who didn’t own the house they were selling. A house in Gee Cross near Hyde in Manchester. It was a beautiful house. A double-fronted Georgian house with an nice walled garden and a barn that could have been converted into C’s consulting room (she’s a counsellor and trainee psychotherapist). It was a bit dated inside and would have required decorating throughout, a new kitchen, and bathroom. But it was a beautiful house and would have been a wonderful investment property for us. It was going cheap because it needed some work and, we were told, because the owner had recently died very suddenly and unexpectedly.

We were going through the buying process when, on one evening while I was away on business, C was watching a reconstruction on a TV news programme. It was a reconstruction of the killing of the last victim of a notorious serial killer. It showed the killer parking outside of a beautiful double-fronted Georgian house in Gee Cross near Hyde in Manchester. It showed him entering the house through a nice walled garden, next to a barn. It showed him administering the lethal injection to his victim. The killer then went on to forge the poor lady’s will so that it looked as if she had bequeathed him a huge amount of money, and the house in which she lived. The house in which she died. The house in which she had been killed. And, the house in which the killer had subsequently intended to sell to us, before he was caught.

The killer was a doctor. A General Practitioner by the name of Doctor Harold Shipman. Doctor Death. The most prolific serial killer ever to disgrace these shores. After his trial, an inquest decided that there was enough evidence to suggest that Shipman had killed some 215 people, mostly women. His youngest victim had been a 41-year-old woman. Some sources have suggested that Shipman may have killed over 400 people.

I hate to think how we would have stood legally or otherwise (or where we would have lived) if we had bought the house before the fraudulent will had been discovered. It doesn’t bear thinking about. We had a lucky escape.

So, just you take care. Keep your cards close. Be careful what you throw away. Have a healthy degree of caution when dealing with others. And, watch your colleagues closely. Above all, if you are doing something wrong, stop it now. Before you get caught. The consequences don’t bear thinking about. As Sgt. Phil Esterhaus (Hill Street Blues) would have said: “Let’s be careful out there!”

 

 

 

Where’s The Volume Control?

Where’s The Volume Control?

 Where is the volume control knob on kids? C and I do not have any kids, apart from the fur baby, Maslow the cat. But we do appreciate the kids of our friends and family. We have been very fortunate to see all of our friends’ kids grow from babies.

We recently stayed for the weekend with my best mate, E, and his family. He has one daughter, R, who is five; one son, J, who is three; and, a new baby daughter, A, who is just nine months old. She has that lovely smell that only babies have. They are all adorable. But, they are all so noisy. Adorable and noisy. How can something so small generate so much volume.

We had an hour or two after arrival having a “grown up” chat with E, catching up on old times and then meeting baby A for the first time, after she had woken up. She was great fun. She is very sociable and used to being passed around between adults, due to the fact, unfortunately, that she has spent an awful lot of time in hospital. She is a lot better now though, thankfully. We spent a pleasant hour or so getting to know her – cuddles, playing hide-and-seek, dutifully picking up the things she had dropped, and taking her for a walk in the new three-wheeler buggy. A three-wheeler buggy. Apparently they are so much better for off-road walking! I’m afraid that E, Barnsley-born and bred, is sliding gracefully into the middle classes. He retains his social conscience though, picking up any litter he finds in the streets, and, rescuing “useful” things that have been discarded in neighbours skips. You can take the boy out of Barnsley, but……..

And then, mom returned with the other two kids. It was as if a tornado had swept through the house. An adorable tornado though. An adorable, incredibly noisy tornado. Admittedly, they were probably high on e-numbers, having just returned from a kiddies’ party, clutching their goody bags in sticky little hands. Apparently, J is at that age when little boys get a rush of testosterone. Well, it showed. The next couple of hours involved J running around laughing and shouting gleefully at all the attention he was receiving, bashing everyone with the balloon he had brought back from the party. He was not quiet. For those of you familiar with the spoof rock classic, Spinal Tap, J’s volume control definitely goes up to eleven!

Actually, we had a great time. J and I built flying monsters out of K’Nex, while C helped little R colour in some fairies that would subsequently be turned into badges and fridge magnets. R is big into fairies at the moment. She’s a proper little princess. These kids both have really great manners and wonderful imaginations, and, it is a pleasure to spend time with them without the necessity of batteries. Toys without batteries seem to be very rare these days. In any case, they are quite capable of providing their own sound effects.

For those of us without kids, it is hard to explain to those of you who have, how loud children can be. Parents seem to have an amazing skill at blocking this sound out. It washes over them. But, if one of the kids so much as misses a breath in the middle of the night, both parents would be wide awake and by their side in a second. They didn’t miss a breath as it happened, but all three kids did have a cough. They coughed through the night until it was time to get up and play. Time to make more noise.

This reminded me of the time I baby sat for the neighbours’ three year old boy. Michael was also adorable. He was cute. He was like a cartoon boy with a big head, big eyes, and a mop of brown hair that could never fully be stuck down successfully. He could have advertised Bisto. He was an outdoor kid and would spend hours in the garden with just his vivid imagination for company. He collected worms, newts and snails. He let the snails play on his slide……or should that be a roll? He loved to plant herbs with C in our garden. He would water them and come to visit often to see how much they had grown. On one occasion he touched some wild garlic and then smelled his fingers. He declared: “It smells like burps!”. Such wisdom.

Anyhow, I had never babysat before. I was a tad nervous, especially about the “toilet things”. Moms in the office spent the day reassuring me that three year olds were normally toilet trained. This was reassuring because I had Michael all to myself for about three hours as C was working late that night. His mom brought Michael round just before they left for their night at the ballet (in Crewe?). “He’s just been to the loo so he’ll just need his teeth cleaning and a wee before bed.” said mom. That was reassuring.

Mom left. A fort was constructed out of the cushions off the sofa and our lounge soon turned into a scene reminiscent of a bomb going off in Toys R’Us. And, just five minutes later, little Michael declared, “I need the loo!” and set off upstairs. He always made himself at home. I wasn’t worried until I heard a little cry from upstairs: “D, I keep falling in!”. His little bum was too small for our toilet seat. And, so it began!

I had to hold Michael over the loo as he did his number twos. How could such a cute little boy produce such a horrible smell! It was clearly hard work. Michael was straining as if he was giving birth to a baby elephant. His teeth were clenched and he was turning red in the face through his exertions. The smell got worse. The noise was incredible. He was pebble-dashing the bowl. It was quite horrible. I began to retch. Fortunately I kept the contents of my stomach to myself. Things could not get worse.

Then things got worse. Michael finished. Michael skipped off the toilet, turned his back to me, bent over and touched his toes. I had to wipe his bum. Yeuch! I hope I never have to get that close to another human being in my life. My hat goes off to all those parents, nurses and other carers out there for which this is a common occurrence. Maslow’s litter tray is about my limit.

C thought all this was hilarious when she got home. Mind you her timing was perfect that night. I had the toilet experience. I then spent the next couple of hours keeping Michael entertained and tiring him out. Tiring him out!? I was exhausted. C arrived just in time for teeth cleaning, which he managed to do himself, and to read him a bed-time story…..Fair-weather babysitting if you ask me.

Adorable. Hard work but adorable. Noisy but adorable. To all my friends and family with kids, the utmost respect. We love them all. We especially love the way you take them back when we have finished playing. See you all soon. xx

My Neighbours – The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly Part 2

Nuneaton

 There have been good neighbours along the way too. When I lived as a bachelor in a small, brand-new estate called Galley Common, near Nuneaton, I had lots of nice neighbours. Wikipedia claims that Nuneaton is most famous for its association with the gender-challenged author George Elliot, but I think it should be more infamous for its town planning. They built the ring road in the middle of the town! Both Mary Whitehouse (the TV moral campaigner) and Larry Grayson (the camp host of the Generation Game) lived in Nuneaton. Now that would have made for an interesting dinner party. Galley Common doesn’t even rate an entry.

Nevertheless, bachelorhood in Galley Common, in the late 80s, was a good time for me. I was the only single male on the estate. I worked from home a lot. I was often asked to fix a punctured tyre, to rewire a plug, change a light bulb, by the many desperate housewives that were stranded there during the day.

I lived in a very small, badly built semi-detached starter home. The walls were paper thin. Thank goodness I had a great neighbour at that time, Ruth. She would sneeze, I would say “bless you” and she would reply “thank you”. We could hear each other switch lights on and off. We could hear the toilet flushing. We were both very glad to be next to good neighbours.

Everyone else on the estate seemed to be called Sue. Sue 1 lived opposite. She was ten years older than me, very good looking and bi-sexual. My dad used to love it if she was cleaning her car on her drive when he was visiting. She wore very short shorts and a very cropped top. She made Paris Hilton look prudish. She would fling open her bedroom curtains every morning, completely naked. The net curtains that my mom had installed as a moving in gift were very useful.

Sue 1 and I had a brief fling one Christmas. I changed a punctured tire for her and she reciprocated with lasagne and a Saturday night. We both had been recently dumped and found the festive season less than festive on our own. So, we wallowed in our depression together. Sue 1 cheered me up that night.

Sue1 almost fulfilled a teenage fantasy. By which I mean a common fantasy of all teenage boys. A threesome. Me, Sue1 and her girlfriend. I turned them down. Sue1’s girlfriend was not a looker. She was not attractive. She did nothing for me. I thought that it would be impolite to bring two paper bags with me (you make her wear one bag and then you wear the other in case her’s falls off), so I declined the offer. Just my luck. Come to think of it, I think that fantasy has lasted a bit longer than my teenage years.

Sue2 lived next door. Sue2 was 7 years older than me. Sue2 was a babe. She was tall, pretty, with long dark hair, short skirts, long legs and stockings. Sue2 was living with a typical Midland Man: bald, shorter than her, white socks. A Neanderthal who believed that women should be ladies, housewives, and “on call” and men should be whatever they wanted to be.

Midland Man worked away during the week, in Oxford. On one occasion Sue2 went to surprise him for his birthday. She surprised him alright. He hadn’t been expecting her. She also surprised the “other woman” he was with. It would seem that Midland Man was having his cake and eating it.

Sue2 cried on my shoulder. To cheer her up I took her to Alton Towers for the day. You get very close on those theme rides! When we returned home we had one too many drinks together and one thing led to another…….Ruth must have had her fingers in her ears that night.

That weekend I heard an almighty commotion coming from next door. Where Sue2 lived with Midland Man. From my bathroom window I could see into their kitchen. The door was open. The kitchen was a mess. Things had been thrown around. Then I heard a scream and saw Sue2 running outside, her dress torn, crying. Midland Man came running after her, clutching a carving knife.

I assumed that Midland Man had found out about our roller coaster ride and was none-to-happy. What was sauce for the goose certainly didn’t seem to be sauce for the gander. I rushed outside and put myself between him and Sue2. Between Sue2 and the carving knife. I don’t like knives. It was a huge relief when he immediately said: “Dave, get out of the way. This has nothing to do with you!” Phew. He was a bully and as with most bullies he was also a coward. When I told him I was going nowhere and that he would have to come through me to get at Sue2, he backed down, handed me the blade, and collapsed in a heap of self-pity. Phew.

I don’t think that Sue2 and Midland Man stayed together very long. Unfortunately, after the incident with the knife, Sue2 developed a bit of an infatuation with me that wasn’t reciprocated. On one occasion she came round with her bags packed and I had to persuade her that this was not what I was looking for. Fortunately, this was just as I was relocating to London with work. Sorry Sue2. You were gorgeous though, and, you deserved better.

I was just glad to escape Nuneaton in one piece. Metaphorically and otherwise. 

 

 

 

 

My Neighbours – The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly Part 1

Mad Val

I have been blessed with good neighbours. I have been damned with awful neighbours. I crave for a detached house. Isolation. Neighbourless is a state that would suit me down to the ground. I am paranoid about neighbourly noise. Actually there is nothing neighbourly about noise from your neighbours. It is intrusive, wearing, impolite. It eats into your soul. It gets into your head, and it stays there. It grinds you down and it drives you out. It eats away at you until you can hear yourself scream the silent scream.

This is all the fault of Val. C and I lived next to Val for six years in our first home as a married couple. It was a beautiful Victorian cottage in Bolliwood (Alderley Edge) in Cheshire. Unfortunately, it was a semi-detached cottage, just one room wide. And, Val lived on the other side of the shared wall. Val, her TV and her stereo…..

Don’t get me wrong, the years were not all bad. Indeed, the first five and a half years out of the six were wonderful. After we had moved on, Val “knocked on” as they do in the North. When our paths crossed she always raised her hand in hello and we exchanged a word or two. Indeed, I remember the first time that we went away on holiday we left Val with a set of keys. In case of emergency. It was such a nice surprise when we discovered, upon our return, that Val had stocked the fridge with milk, bread and bacon and egg as a welcome home gift. We reciprocated, of course, when Val made one of her many trips back to the motherland. Val was Irish.

On my last night in the house I could have killed her. She was deliberately provoking us. She held a party despite the fact that it was a Thursday night. A work night to all intents and purposes. But, she knew we were leaving. So, she had all her Irish drinking partners around until 3 am. The shared wall shook to the tune of many an Irish jig or sad rock ballad. If I had gone round to complain I would have killed her. Actually, C refused to let me go. She was more concerned that this was a deliberate provocation and that if I had gone around there would have been many a Guinness and Jameson fuelled navvy more than ready to kill me.

For most of these six years Val lived alone. Occasionally she would obtain a boy friend. Val was in her fifties. Most of her boyfriends were in their twenties or thirties. Toy boys. Val was no looker. Perhaps she had money. These toy boys came and went. But, the toy boy that went five and half years into our residence next door to Val must have been significant. Val was inconsolable. Val resorted to self-pity, alcohol and Shirley Bassey. Shirley Bassey ballads would reverberate through the walls. Cover versions. Val once spent a whole weekend playing Shirley’s version of Foreigner’s “I want to know what love is” at full volume, back to back, in a constant repetitive loop. I did complain about 3am in the morning. Monday morning. I had to get up for work at 6am. She answered the door in an apologetic drunken haze. She did turn the music down. For maybe 20 minutes. After which Shirley belted it out at full volume until the alarm went off and I opened the door to sanctuary.

Also during this last six months, Val discovered the “pleasure” of Line Dancing. She also discovered the joys of practise. Home practise. Can you imagine listening to Cotton Eyed Joe being played at full volume on a constant loop! It was almost a relief when practise was over and Shirley Bassey would kick in. Or, bloody Simply Red. God I hate that man. Ginga!

For those of you who have read my earlier post “There’s a Bomb”, you will understand that I have long suspected that Val was trained in terrorist techniques. To be sure, the CIA would have been proud of her excellent use of noise pollution. General Noreaga would not have survived 24 hours next to Val.

I became paranoid about noise. I became convinced that we were somehow provoking Val into retaliating. I would only allow C three bars on the TV volume control. More often the not we spent the last six months in this house watching the same programmes on TV as Val next door, with our volume down, listening to her TV. When C was out I would listen to the football on the radio in the bathroom or in the kitchen so as not to provoke a retaliation. Mostly I would go out for a walk or a drive. I was making myself ill.

When selling, we would schedule viewings when we knew that Val was most likely to be out. We got very excited when someone put an offer in for the house who was hoping to set up a recording studio in the attic. Revenge would be mine. Unfortunately he pulled out. Shame.

Val, wherever you are now I hope you rot in a Neighbour From Hell existence of your own making. My own personal Hell would be a small cottage, a shared wall, Shirley and a Ginga singing a duet of Cotton Eyed Joe. Thanks Val and good riddance. 

 

 

 

 

 

Royston Vasey (Where My Mother-In-Law Lives)

Royston Vasey (Where My Mother-In-Law Lives) 

My in-laws live in a place called Hadfield, in Glossop, the High Peak, in Derbyshire. For those of you who are interested, I would encourage you visit www.glossop.com. It is a mine of “interesting” information. It is certainly the only place I know that has a development scheme called the “Liveability Pilot”. Pilot? Liveability? They have to pilot living? As opposed to what – Dieability? Some parts of Glossop do still seem to belong to a bygone age. Which is not necessarily a bad thing at all. I also like the Wikipedia entry for Hadfield which stresses that: “The town has a railway station on the electrified line to Manchester…..” How very modern! No steam trains for modern Hadfield! Hadfield is where they filmed the League of Gentlemen. Actually, it would seem, that the League of Gentlemen was based upon Hadfield. Hadfield is Royston Vasey. Royston Vasey is Hadfield. My in-laws live in Royston Vasey.

Royston Vasey, is actually the real name of Roy “Chubby” Brown being the very blue, often offensive comedian who plays the town’s foul-mouthed mayor in the TV programme. Steve Pemberton, one of the writers, claims that Royston Vasey is an amalgam of northern towns in which the writers have had strange experiences.

My in-laws don’t like the League of Gentlemen very much. I am not sure that either of them have ever watched it. Anything not on BBC1, Radio 3, Sky Sports, or Irish, is likely to have passed them by. In any case, they dislike the association with their home. Being from Birmingham myself, this is something that I can associate and empathise with. It is never nice to have your hometown denigrated in such a way. I was so glad when Crossroads finished. Both times.

My mother-in-law expressed her unhappiness about Hadfield’s association with Royston Vasey one Sunday lunch, with C’s three younger sisters in attendance. We were sat around the table, wine in glasses, plates full of roast meat, and Irish tunes gently playing in the background. My mom-in-law is very proud of her Irish heritage. She is second generation off the boat. Her bookcases groan under the weight of Irish literature, and, our earplugs groan under the weight of Irish dirges. Incidentally, it is often said that Glossop people, being sophisticated, tell ‘Irish’ jokes about people from Hadfield. (As Irish people tell jokes about people from Cork. And French people tell jokes about Belgians.) People from Hadfield tell jokes about people from Padfield. People from Padfield don’t tell jokes, they just pick plums.

In any case, “The people in town do not like all this Royston Vasey business!”, declared my mother-in-law. ( I could have added a few “to be sure” and “bejesus” but she doesn’t actually talk that way.) “In fact, last week a bunch of women in the town got so annoyed that they started to throw stones at the film crew!”. So, not like Royston Vasey at all!

Incidentally, the meat we ate that very Sunday was bought from Mettricks’ butcher. H Briss & Sons Butchers in the show. This is the butchers where the “special sausages” are made. Indeed, in real life, the butcher does market a range of “special sausages”, but with alcohol as an ingredient rather than body parts. I am glad to say that Mettricks , at least, is cashing in on its notoriety with an online ordering facility (http://www.mettricksbutchers.co.uk/gentlemen.htm). Other, entrepreneurial “local shops” and businesses are also looking to cash in. The local burger bar is now called “Burger Me”. And, the local pubs are happy to entertain those doing the tourist thing on the back of the show. It seems that not all of the locals dislike the association with the programme quite as much as my mother-in-law.

Indeed, when C and I were looking for venues for our wedding reception, C’s mom took us to a place called Windy Harbour – a B&B with a decent sized breakfast room that was use for events. I’m so glad that we chose Palace Hotel in Buxton instead. Windy Harbour, though a perfectly adequate B&B, is where they filmed the swingers club in the League of Gentlemen – the so-called Windermere Guest House. I am quite glad we chose to go elsewhere. Starting married life in a swingers club recommended to you by your mother-in-law is probably not the best start.

Steve Pemberton, one of the four writers of The League, has admitted that “75 or 80% of the characters do have basis in real people, believe it or not.” So, mom, I was right after all………

 

 

Near Death Experiences Part 3

Drowning

I am not the world’s strongest swimmer. I did get my Swimming Proficiency Badge while in the Cubs so I am able to swim 25 metres and rescue a brick from the bottom of a heavily chlorinated pool while wearing pyjamas. But, this has not proved to be the perfect training for the real thing. The sea. The ocean. The big blue. Maybe I should always wear pyjamas when I go swimming. 

I have nearly drowned twice. The first time was in the beautiful lagoon of Oludeniz in Turkey. C and I were on holiday there a few years ago. Oludeniz is beautiful with its white fine sand tipping into the beautiful blue/green water of the lagoon. The lagoon is framed by sheer cliffs. Paragliders launch themselves from the top of these cliffs and soar like graceful eagles until they descend onto the beach. Indeed our neighbours, who are big in the paragliding world – Neil was former captain of the UK team – have flown here themselves. But, not on the day that C and I were there. 

It was very hot. C and I decided to swim a while in order to cool down a bit. The water was clean and cool. The beach sloped gently into the sea, giving an expanse of shallow water, before falling away quite dramatically into deep water. While swimming you could tell that you had crossed the “ledge” by the considerable drop in water temperature. C and I were close to this ledge, taking in the views.

Earlier we had spotted a bunch of local lads, in their early twenties, teaching one of their number to swim. Right now this lad was stood alone, near to us, waist high in the water, while his mates were catching some rays back on the beach. After a while he started to jump up and down in the water. After a little while longer he began to wave his arms around. His mates waved back. After a little while longer he began to slip under the water. It suddenly became clear to C and I that he wasn’t messing around. He was in difficulty. He was clearly caught on the edge of the ledge and the sand was slipping away beneath his feet. His mates hadn’t noticed and were too far away to help him in any case. And, then he disappeared. 

I dived into the water, over the ledge, and grabbed the lad. He was really panicking at this point and grabbed me and pulled me and dragged me down with him. It took a huge amount of energy and strength for me to get beneath him, to grab his legs and literally to hurl him away from me back into the shallows. He crawled to the shore. I emerged from the sea, gasping and gagging on water I had swollen. I crawled to the shore. There his mates surrounded me and patted me on the back. They had no English but it was clear that they were very happy that I had rescued their mate from a potentially dangerous situation. I was quite proud of myself that day. I think I save that lad’s life. 

The second time I nearly drowned was a lot more recent. It was Christmas 2005. It was the second day of our holiday in Australia. We were in Sydney staying with a very good friend, K, who was working over there.

We were taking in the coastal path walking from Clovelly to Bondi Beach. About half way round we stopped for a bite to eat at Bronte Beach before walking on to Tamarama. We were all a bit hot and so we decided to stay a while at Tamarama and take a cooling, refreshing dip in the beautiful blue sea. 

After a little sunbathing C and I went into the water together while K was guarding the bags and applying her suntan cream. C and I were bobbing up and down in the waves, sometimes hopping on one leg, sometimes with C holding onto me as I bobbed.

We were ecstatic. We could not believe that only a couple of days earlier we had been in the depths of a British winter, complete with snow. We were engrossed in the view, the excitement, the whole experience. I should also add that this was considered to be a safe beach. And, there were lots of other people in the water at the same time as ourselves. The beach was guarded by life guards and we were well between the flags that designated the safe swimming area. 

Anyhow, after chatting for ten minutes or so, C and I noticed that we had drifted a few metres away from the main crowd of bathers. At the same time, waves began to break on top of us, taking us under. But at this point, once the wave had broken, I was still able to hop and bring my head above the surface. We looked at each other and decided it would be best to swim for shore.

We swam. We swam for a good five minutes. We were getting nowhere. Actually we were getting further from the shore. We were swimming backwards. We were in a rip tide. We were in a rip tide that was taking us beyond the edge of the rocks and into the open sea. Into the open, shark-infested sea. We had already heard of two swimmers who had been killed by bull sharks since our arrival Down Under, so this was not a pleasant prospect. And, again, waves began to break onto us and take us under. But, by now I was tiring and there was no sand beneath my feet when I attempted to hop. By now, I was beneath the surface more than I was above it. I realised that I was helpless. I was too tired to swim to shore. C is a stronger swimmer than I am. I told her she should leave me and try and swim back. She refused. She wouldn’t leave me. This was the closest I have ever felt to death. C and I were actually, silently, beginning to say goodbye to each other. Helpless. But, at least we were together.

 

 

 

I got taken down again by a big wave. As I spluttered back to the surface and looked around for C, I was surprised to hear another voice: “G’day folks. Do you need a hand?” It was a lifeguard. Sat there on a surfboard, all bronzed, blond and muscular in his red swim shorts. I could have kissed him. They must have been watching us from the shore and realised that we were in difficulty. He had swam out beyond us on his board to come to our rescue. However, we were in a very rough bit of sea so as we clung to his board he signalled for another lifeguard to came and help. And soon, another surf knight arrived on his gleaming steed.

Being rescued was not the easiest. For a while both rescuer and rescuee spent a good time somersaulting around in the water, gripping a surfboard, as waves crashed about us. My knuckles were raw from gripping the cord and being pressed against the board. Eventually we made it to some flat water. Now they attempted to get us onto the boards. C was hesitant. Throughout most of this experience she had been clinging on with just one hand, while the other attempted to cling onto her dignity and the bikini bottoms which every crashing wave attempted to wrench from her bum. C insisted on pulling her pants back up before climbing on board and being whisked to the safety of land.

Once C was safe it was my turn. I was instructed to clamber aboard on my belly. Once I was on, I heard something from another man that I hope never to hear again: “Spread your legs mate, I’m coming in from behind!” With my guardian angel kneeling behind me we veritably flew back to shore. “No more swimming for you today mate!” He instructed as he went off to move the safety flags…..

 C and I clambered back to our friend Kate. Our friend Kate who had missed the whole thing. An old guy who had been sat next to her suddenly remarked: “Jeez, if I’d a known they wuz with you, I’d a given you a heads up” (to be read in an Australian accent). Everyone we met thereafter seemed to have good advice how to survive a rip tide. I wish they had given it to us before we had entered the water. The advice goes a) don’t attempt to swim your way out – you will just tire and drown or attract shark and be eaten; b) put one arm in the air to signal that you require assistance; c) float. Apparently rip tides pull you out but then, as if in a big arc, will simply deposit you further down the coast. As long as the sharks don’t get you, you’ll be fine as long as you float. 

We chilled for the rest of the day and then, in the evening, went to a bar in another Sydney suburb to meet up with some of K’s work colleagues. One Aussie native was adamant that she knew C from somewhere. We then attempted to determine how this could possibly be. We ruled out London and other parts of the UK and everything else until the girl suddenly exclaimed: “I know! You were the girl rescued from Tamarama Bay this arvo……” C’s fifteen minutes of fame. 

I hope we don’t come that close to having to say goodbye to each other for a very, very long time, C and I. 

Near Death Experiences Part 2

The Goats Of Atros

 

So, having successfully avoided chemical scud attacks on holiday in Israel (see earlier posting), C and I continued to risk life and limb on our various sojourns in warmer climates.Beware the Goats of Atros!

Atros is a small monastery high up in the mountains above the port of Poros on the beautiful island of Kefalonia, the famed setting of Captain Corelli’s Mandolin. It truly is a beautiful spot. Indeed, the area in the north, around Fiscardo, is officially the 7th most beautiful spot on the planet. I don’t remember who officially designated it as such, but, I am not one to argue. And, the six more beautiful places must be quite some sight. 

There is a story about the monastery at Atros. Apparently the monks there are very sociable. They welcome all visitors who take the time and the trouble to visit them, rewarding them with bread, olive oil and salt, and a glass of ouzo. In return, all they ask is that you send them a postcard from home. Well, this little piece of cultural and social idealism appealed to my better half, C.

And so we set off one day, C in search of cultural and social idealism, and me in search of a welcoming glass of ouzo. The guides all told us that the road cum path up to the monastery was steep and windy. But, I was not deterred. I was not deterred because a) I am generally fearless, b) my inhibitions tend to reduce significantly with proximity to alcohol, and, c) I was driving a four wheel drive Suzuki jeep with the roof down. How cool is that!?

Unfortunately, the same could not be said for my diminutive partner. C is not the most confident passenger in the world, while I am the master of under-statement. Nor is she the best at heights. What I hadn’t known until this fateful day, is that she is also not to hot on crumbling edges of roads. I was really enjoying winding my way up the dirt track to Atros. C was not. C was clutching the jeep door like a theme park ride. Even without her glasses, the imminent fall off the sheer drop at the site of the road was clear to her.

I decided against an approach of reasoning, and reassuring that my Advanced Motorist techniques were more than a match for the route. When the screaming got too much, I parked. We parked about half way up the mountain path to the friendly monks.  

We decided to walk. As we walked we were passed by a couple of other 4WDs carrying labourers from the monastery on high. They looked at us as if we were idiots for attempting to walk up the mountain. They must have fell about in a heap when they realised we had decided to walk with a perfectly functioning 4WD of our own parked below. I just hope to God that they mistook us for Germans. They don’t like Germans on Kefalonia. Don’t mention the war. 

We walked. We climbed. We climbed. We walked. The path disappeared into a steep wooded area. All of a sudden we could hear a distant clunking sound. Like a pebble being rattled in an empty coke can. The clunking got louder. The clunking got closer. The clunking was joined by other clunking sounds. C and I stopped walking and we stopped climbing. C and I looked at each other in bemusement. And, then, all of a sudden, the source of the clunking became clear as hundreds, and hundreds, and hundreds, of mountain goats hurtled through the trees towards us. There were hundreds, and hundreds of them. It was very frightening. 

These were huge beasts. Mythical beasts from ancient times. They all had huge, sharp horns sticking out from their heads. They were stampeding. Towards us. C took shelter. C took shelter behind me. I had nowhere to hide. Wide-eyed and nostrils flaring (the goats not me), these huge beasts flew towards us, hooves striking sparks on the rocks beneath them. Fortunately, they all somehow managed to spot us quaking there and changed their course at the last minute. We could smell them as they whipped past. The stampede seemed to last an absolute age. And then, all of a sudden, they were gone. It was quiet.

C and I looked at each other. Hugged each other. Sighed with relief. We climbed a little more until we heard a distant clunking sound. The clunking got louder. The clunking got closer. We had to endure another two stampedes of hurtling mountain goats. It was quite terrifying. Only when we were confident that the mountain top was goat free did we continue on our way.

The path steepened. Unfortunately, C and I were ill prepared for such a walk in such a heat. Expecting that we would have driven to the monastery (!) we hadn’t bothered to bring water with us, or hats. It was very hot. We were very dehydrated. And soon, C began to feel the effects of the heat and the sun. She was sick and dizzy. She went weak at the knees. I avoided all obvious jokes. It wouldn’t have been the right time. And so, as we caught a tantalising first glimpse of the monastery on high, we stopped. C could go no more. Fearing the re-emergence of the demonic goats, C refused to be left while I returned for the jeep. We gathered our strength and trudged wearily down the path to our jeep below.

We stopped at the first shop we could find for a refreshing can of coke. Fortunately, these cans of coke were clunk free. We never did get that glass of ouzo. But we had survived yet another near death holiday experience. But even today, the bleat of a goat or a clunking sound or cow bell in the distance can cause the hair on the back of our necks to stand on end. Beware the goats of Atros! Ignore your wife. Drive to the top! 

Near Death Experiences Part 1

Saddam Tried To Kill Us

 C and I often joke that whenever we go on holiday we end up having a near death experience. This is not always the case. But it is mostly the case. So, I’m not sure why our parents are always so keen to come with us…..We did get a bit spooked when we went to Eilat in Israel and almost ended up in the middle of a second Gulf War (this was, of course, long before the second Gulf War). Eilat is at the base of Israel, on the Red Sea. Eilat is surrounded by hostile states. From our hotel you could see Jordan – Eilat is next door to Aqaba in Jordan, which is where Lawrence of Arabia went through all that grief to get to. We used to joke that as long as the lights were on in Aqaba then we were OK. Saudi Arabia was also visible from the hotel and Egypt was just 10 minutes round the corner on the coast road. And, most importantly, Eilat was within scud missile range of Iraq, Saddam’s Iraq.

That would be enough to put most people off Eilat, especially at a time of such international tension. But not C and I. Indeed, the threat from weapons of mass destruction aside, I am not sure that Eilat is somewhere that I would recommend to anyone other than the most committed scuba-divers. Eilat is a bit like holidaying in Birmingham by the Sea, or, a Portsmouth with dolphins. It is quite a big city, at the edge of an even bigger desert, with nice beaches, a wonderful aquarium, and dolphins. But, it also has huge shopping malls (a bit disconcerting when you get searched as a possible suicide bomber on the way in), prostitutes, and quite a lot of industry too. It also has the rudest rip-off taxi drivers I have met anywhere. They are even worse than those of Paris (don’t get me started) with the one notable exception – Eilat cabbies tote guns!

When you visit Israel you can kind of understand why they do not get on with their neighbours. Israel is surrounded by hostile states. Admittedly, those states are hostile because they lost the war and ended up with a very westernised, very Americanised, very militaristic Israel in the middle of their holy land, and, in their own cities and homes. To the victor the spoils of war. Also, Israel is only something like forty miles across at the widest point – and that is shrinking fast as the Dead Sea finally seems to be giving up the illusion of life. And, it seems that the Israeli’s are not always the easiest of people to have as your neighbours. Israeli’s differentiate between those that are born and bread in Israel and those that are immigrants. The home-grown variety are called “Shabra“. In Israeli this means “Prickly Pear”, being soft and delicious on the inside but spiky and aggressive to the outside world.

Anyhow, things were a little tense when we were in Eilat. Saddam was not playing ball. He was not allowing the UN weapons inspectors to search for those mythical WMDs (Weapons of Mass Destruction) that would cause Tony Blair so much trouble later on. The Security Council, egged on by the US and Britain, were spoiling for a fight. Israel expected to be a target and mobilised its forces. Admittedly, C noticed this mobilisation a little later than the Iraqis probably did. She is a bit short sighted. I had to point out to her that every Israeli man and woman of a certain age, walking about the streets of Eilat, was sporting a sub-machine gun. The navy was constantly patrolling the Red Sea. The naval base was just five minutes up the road from our hotel. Trips to Jordan were cancelled after a tourist bus had been fired on. We never did get to see Petra. We were searched going into the local mall. We watched Red Neck US satellite TV to stay in touch with the scarce news. We were getting worried. We got even more worried when we met another British couple at a bus stop and they told us that they had been advised to report to an Israeli police station upon arrival to be issued wit their gas masks. We had received no such warning. We had no gas masks. Thank you Foreign Office. Thanks for nothing.

Local TV was full of advice about sealing your home against a chemical attack. Great. There is only so much bottled water you can store in a mini-bar. And, mosquito nets are not the best defence against anthrax spores.

C and I even conjured up an escape plan. In the event of something kicking off we were going to steal bikes from the hotel reception and cycle the two miles round the coast road to Egypt and seek sanctuary there . This could have been fun; it had been a long time since C had been on a bike…….As it turned out we were evacuated instead. We were evacuated through Eilat’s military airbase, which was bristling with attack helicopters and other such military hardware. It was quite spooky. And, being interrogated by a rather good-looking 18 year-old female soldier about the contents of your luggage was pretty spooky too, especially when she went into graphic detail about how little explosive was needed to bring down a jumbo ( a credit-card sized amount will do it apparently). We didn’t mention that we had left our bags unguarded at reception for two hours as we took a last swim in the pool…….

As it turned out, Saddam did not unleash the mother of all battles at this time. The day was saved by Kofi Annan, then top honcho at the UN. He flew into Baghdad just as we flew out and he came to an arrangement about the weapons inspectors……It was pretty tense for a while though.