After the trip to Munich in 1983 I wrote a book about the trip. It was only an exercise book with about 32 pages so it was hardly War and Peace, but it had a poem in it. The whole book is of course lost now, and if it's ever found I doubt The Time Team members of the future will be knocking each other out to get their hands on it, but I've had a go at recreating the poem. Some of it rhymes and some of it totally doesn't but I haven't got hours to sit around trying to shoehorn phrases into it that rhyme with Badminton and the word incriminating, so just pretend it's one of those modern poems that don't rhyme because the person who wrote it is so clever it doesn't need to.
Avoiding Swingball in the English Garden
In 83 we went to Germany
but it wasn’t football and it wasn’t a war
There weren’t any tanks and there weren’t any trenches
We sat on the grass, there weren’t any benches
The most dangerous thing we faced all trip
Was a naked German with his designs on a game of Badminton
As we sat on the grass and politely declined
His penis swung dangerously near
We made sure we reclined.
Bloody hell it’s supposed to be badminton not swing ball
I didn’t yell after him.
We got to see German girls breasts and underarm hair
The English kept their tops on, it wasn’t fair
We used to go swimming in the English Garden
The water was cold, I lost my trunks
I was fully naked but no-one saw
because my penis had shrunk
(Except Helen Winn, but she would have needed an electron microscope to see anything incriminating.)
I got lost going to see Tootsie,
the police couldn’t find me
A young English idiot in a stripey top
asking for directions in broken German
It should have been easy.
We saw the castle from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
But I haven’t got any pictures
Because I mostly photographed girls then
(And also I’d have had to be miles away to get the whole castle in
and I only had a crap disc camera and it wasn’t even any good at photographing stuff close up.)
There was one girl in particular
She was called Pamela
I liked her but she liked Darren more
So I had a lemon ice cream
To commiserate myself with.
It was okay in the end
Because I was friends with Darren too
And we went out for a picnic together
I proved I could handle rejection like a man,
a skill I would need a lot in later life
Not just with girls but with interviews.
I was always trying to be funny then
Just like I do now
Sid was there
he was trying to be funnier
But he cheated by taking a Monty Python book
I had to make my own stuff up
After we came back we mostly lost touch
But then we waited 25 years and they invented
Social networking.
So I got to reminisce about 83
With Pamela and with others
About being thinner
And about going to Germany
Not for football, and not for a war
Where there weren’t any trenches,
And there weren’t any benches
And there weren’t any tanks, except for the memories.
Saturday, 31 December 2011
How am I going to get a new job when Stephen Fry and Clarkson have got them all?
Stephen Fry is bloody everywhere. I've noticed this because I've been back working in a bookshop and also I sometimes switch the telly on. There was a Dickens spoof on the other night, and he was in that, he's on bloody QI and every time I pick up a Harry Potter audiobook his face is there looking intelligent on the back of it. That's not to mention his autobiography which is rammed into just about every shelf we've got, and even Ruth got a copy for Christmas.
And Clarkson is everywhere too. He's now into about Volume 53 of his rantathon, which has been going on for about the last hundred years. And hie likes to periodically tell inappropriate jokes on the telly to get even more coverage, as if he wasn't getting enough coverage, by being on the telly already.
There's a part in the film Demolition Man (which is set in the future) where Sandra Bullock tells Sylvester Stallone that all restaurants are now Taco Bell, because they won the franchise wars. Well, if we're not careful in the future all we're going to have is Fry and Clarkson. All fiction will be written by Fry, all non-fiction by Clarkson, all highbrow TV programmes will be presented by Fry, and all programmes about machines and stuff will be Clarkson.
I don't know either of them. They might be very nice people for all I know, who like to stroke kittens and give money to charity. Stephen Fry has obviously got a big vocabulary and he's very clever, and 3 million people think he's worth following on Twitter, but he also looks a bit depressed and full of his own importance to me.
And Clarkson likes to be oh so controversial and so not politically correct, but now Top Gear is just the same all the time. Let's go to a foreign country and take some inappropriate cars and act like big kids and have a right laugh, and lets film it for the mugs back home.
And his books are just rants....Oh hang on, what's this? It's a rant isn't it?
Okay I admit it. I'm jealous of the two of them. Because all those people out there, who are listening to them are not listening to me! What have they got that I haven't? I mean apart from about a billion quid each, and a network of friends and associates in the world of film and TV and the media to get their foot in the door for any project under the sun they fancy getting involved in. What's that you say? You've found a new species of chimp-eating spider in sub-Saharan Africa? Get Fry and a film crew onto it right away!
But if the government wants to get us back to work, they could make Fry and Clarkson go back to only having one job each, and share their other jobs out between the rest of us. Otherwise we're on the slippery slope, and it won't be long before we're all buying Clarkson lunchboxes and teabags brought to you in association with Stephen bloody Fry.
For the sake of balance, I should say this. Keep up the good work Fry and Clarkson, and I wish you continued success in 2012. I'm off to rummage down the back of the sofa now to see if I can find 50p so I can go buy an onion.
And Clarkson is everywhere too. He's now into about Volume 53 of his rantathon, which has been going on for about the last hundred years. And hie likes to periodically tell inappropriate jokes on the telly to get even more coverage, as if he wasn't getting enough coverage, by being on the telly already.
There's a part in the film Demolition Man (which is set in the future) where Sandra Bullock tells Sylvester Stallone that all restaurants are now Taco Bell, because they won the franchise wars. Well, if we're not careful in the future all we're going to have is Fry and Clarkson. All fiction will be written by Fry, all non-fiction by Clarkson, all highbrow TV programmes will be presented by Fry, and all programmes about machines and stuff will be Clarkson.
I don't know either of them. They might be very nice people for all I know, who like to stroke kittens and give money to charity. Stephen Fry has obviously got a big vocabulary and he's very clever, and 3 million people think he's worth following on Twitter, but he also looks a bit depressed and full of his own importance to me.
And Clarkson likes to be oh so controversial and so not politically correct, but now Top Gear is just the same all the time. Let's go to a foreign country and take some inappropriate cars and act like big kids and have a right laugh, and lets film it for the mugs back home.
And his books are just rants....Oh hang on, what's this? It's a rant isn't it?
Okay I admit it. I'm jealous of the two of them. Because all those people out there, who are listening to them are not listening to me! What have they got that I haven't? I mean apart from about a billion quid each, and a network of friends and associates in the world of film and TV and the media to get their foot in the door for any project under the sun they fancy getting involved in. What's that you say? You've found a new species of chimp-eating spider in sub-Saharan Africa? Get Fry and a film crew onto it right away!
But if the government wants to get us back to work, they could make Fry and Clarkson go back to only having one job each, and share their other jobs out between the rest of us. Otherwise we're on the slippery slope, and it won't be long before we're all buying Clarkson lunchboxes and teabags brought to you in association with Stephen bloody Fry.
For the sake of balance, I should say this. Keep up the good work Fry and Clarkson, and I wish you continued success in 2012. I'm off to rummage down the back of the sofa now to see if I can find 50p so I can go buy an onion.
Thursday, 29 December 2011
Mrs Hammond, E M Forster and me.
When I was 17 I used to have double English with Mrs Hammond once a week. That was 80 solid minutes of studying literature. There were about 6 of us in the class. I used to talk more than most, a fact which I was probably hated for by the others.
One week we were doing A Passage to India, and I made myself very unpopular 1 minute into the lesson by saying 'You know, Mrs Hammond, I just don't get this book, what's it all about?'.
For 79 minutes she spoke, without anyone else uttering a word. She hardly paused for breath. It was one of the longest monologues in history, it made Hamlet's soliloquy look like a limerick.
I can't recall anything she said, but the one thing I can remember from A Passage to India is 'Only Connect', which I take to mean that we don't really know the meaning of life, so we just need to connect with others, and there's meaning in that.
I had to wait for social networking to be invented for this to happen fully but now I'm more connected than ever.
I've found Paul and Stephen in Spain, Fraser in Australia, Charlie and my cousins in New Zealand, my other cousins in Sheffield, my friends the indestructible Holdsworths from up the road, Ute in America who used to be a German, I've found Pamela and Vanessa from Germany 83 and Sylke and Carola from Germany 85. I've found Mandy and Andy from 1990 at the CSC, and Phil and Alan and Dean and Kat and Elsa from just last year on the yacf forum.
I don't know what the mearning of it all is, but I'm more connected than ever. To the present and to the past. And a small part of everyone is in me. And a small part of me is in everyone else. And now I think I understand what Mrs Hammond was going on about.
As a postscript to this, I tried to find a reference to 'Only Connect' in Passage to India, but I could only fnd it in Howards End, another Forster book I read while I was attending Mrs Hammond's English classes. It was a bit like an early book group in that we all had to pick a separate book to read and report back on and I chose Howards End because I thought it sounded amusing to shout out 'I'll take Howards End', whereas I think Mrs Hammond had seen it all before and just thought I was being idiotic.
So, this has forced me to question my memory of the event, and it could be that during the 79 minute speech Howards End came up as well, I'm not sure. It doesn't really matter though, because ever since then I have had the little mantra of 'Only Connect' playing in the back of my head, and it also fits in with one of my other favourite quotes from Kurt Vonnegut which is 'We are here to help each other get through this thing, whatever it is'.
I lack the certainty of conviction to be a sincere follower of one of the big religions, but I do sincerely want to connect, because when I look back at my life, all the times I was happiest was when I was connected to others, doing things, having fun, running around the English Garden or the rugby field, or going on bike rides or sitting around in pubs talking crap. There is a time for solitude and I need some of that too, especially to watch televised sport, but all the worthwhile events I can remember, I can remember being there with someone else, and that was what gave it the meaning.
And it hasn't always been the same someone elses. People have come and people have gone. Some have been lost and found again, and some have just been lost. But the feelings of joy and togetherness are often the same, no matter who it was or what the situation. When I look back at pictures of my 15 year old self laughing in Germany I look the same as the 41 year old me laughing in Scotland. I looked thinner when I was 15 and I had less difficulty bending down to pick things up off the ground then, but it's me all the same. And when I think back to the joyous feeling of winning a rugby match in the last minute against Giggleswick, I feel pretty much the same as I do about arriving in Saltburn after guiding a group of people on a coast to coast bike ride.
People sometimes say I'm a miserable sod, and a misanthrope, but underneath I'm not. It's just that I often get scared of the unpredictability of people, and I don't always know what to do with the fallout from behaviour I don't understand or can't cope with, but I like people really. And the last few weeks has brought that home to me.
Thank you Mrs Hammond, I'm all connected up now.
One week we were doing A Passage to India, and I made myself very unpopular 1 minute into the lesson by saying 'You know, Mrs Hammond, I just don't get this book, what's it all about?'.
For 79 minutes she spoke, without anyone else uttering a word. She hardly paused for breath. It was one of the longest monologues in history, it made Hamlet's soliloquy look like a limerick.
I can't recall anything she said, but the one thing I can remember from A Passage to India is 'Only Connect', which I take to mean that we don't really know the meaning of life, so we just need to connect with others, and there's meaning in that.
I had to wait for social networking to be invented for this to happen fully but now I'm more connected than ever.
I've found Paul and Stephen in Spain, Fraser in Australia, Charlie and my cousins in New Zealand, my other cousins in Sheffield, my friends the indestructible Holdsworths from up the road, Ute in America who used to be a German, I've found Pamela and Vanessa from Germany 83 and Sylke and Carola from Germany 85. I've found Mandy and Andy from 1990 at the CSC, and Phil and Alan and Dean and Kat and Elsa from just last year on the yacf forum.
I don't know what the mearning of it all is, but I'm more connected than ever. To the present and to the past. And a small part of everyone is in me. And a small part of me is in everyone else. And now I think I understand what Mrs Hammond was going on about.
As a postscript to this, I tried to find a reference to 'Only Connect' in Passage to India, but I could only fnd it in Howards End, another Forster book I read while I was attending Mrs Hammond's English classes. It was a bit like an early book group in that we all had to pick a separate book to read and report back on and I chose Howards End because I thought it sounded amusing to shout out 'I'll take Howards End', whereas I think Mrs Hammond had seen it all before and just thought I was being idiotic.
So, this has forced me to question my memory of the event, and it could be that during the 79 minute speech Howards End came up as well, I'm not sure. It doesn't really matter though, because ever since then I have had the little mantra of 'Only Connect' playing in the back of my head, and it also fits in with one of my other favourite quotes from Kurt Vonnegut which is 'We are here to help each other get through this thing, whatever it is'.
I lack the certainty of conviction to be a sincere follower of one of the big religions, but I do sincerely want to connect, because when I look back at my life, all the times I was happiest was when I was connected to others, doing things, having fun, running around the English Garden or the rugby field, or going on bike rides or sitting around in pubs talking crap. There is a time for solitude and I need some of that too, especially to watch televised sport, but all the worthwhile events I can remember, I can remember being there with someone else, and that was what gave it the meaning.
And it hasn't always been the same someone elses. People have come and people have gone. Some have been lost and found again, and some have just been lost. But the feelings of joy and togetherness are often the same, no matter who it was or what the situation. When I look back at pictures of my 15 year old self laughing in Germany I look the same as the 41 year old me laughing in Scotland. I looked thinner when I was 15 and I had less difficulty bending down to pick things up off the ground then, but it's me all the same. And when I think back to the joyous feeling of winning a rugby match in the last minute against Giggleswick, I feel pretty much the same as I do about arriving in Saltburn after guiding a group of people on a coast to coast bike ride.
People sometimes say I'm a miserable sod, and a misanthrope, but underneath I'm not. It's just that I often get scared of the unpredictability of people, and I don't always know what to do with the fallout from behaviour I don't understand or can't cope with, but I like people really. And the last few weeks has brought that home to me.
Thank you Mrs Hammond, I'm all connected up now.
Wednesday, 28 December 2011
Where were you when Bruce was blowing up that asteroid? - A history of my life through movies
For some people, music is like a time machine that can transport them back to a time in the past. With me it's movies, particularly ones I've seen at the cinema.
I can chart my whole life through the films I've been to see.
1971 - Diamonds are Forever. The first movie I can remember seeing at the cinema, with my dad. I was nearly 4. I have no recollection of the plot except seeing James Bond drive his car on two wheels. I don't think I ever went to the cinema with my dad again, as he died shortly after.
1974 - The Sound of Music. Not its original release date. One of only two films I can remember seeing with my mum, also went with elderly neighbour Auntie Gertie, whose house was always bloody freezing. I wanted tobe in the Von Trapp family, and wear curtains for clothes and sock it to the Nazis.
1977 - Star Wars. The first time I was ever completely blown away by a film on the big screen. George Lucas didn't need to do all that tweaking years later. If there were any technical deficiencies, my imagination filled in the gaps.
1978 - Grease. I had no desire to go see this. I went with my babysitter Susan who used to spend all her time babysitting us playing the Bee Gees and the Grease soundtrack, to the extent that the neighbours used to bang on the walls. In the days before advance ticketing we got there to find the first screening of the day was full, so we had to queue for the whole length of the film outside in the sun with no drinks until the film had run its course, and we could get in. For the record, I liked Olivia Newton John better before she got all tarted up in leather.
1979 - Superman. Went to see this with my entire primary school class, including Shelagh Peters, who I'm still in touch with till this day. I had some national health specs of my own so I looked more like Clark Kent than Superman. The special effects were rubbish, especially the running and Margot Kidder was too ugly to play Lois Lane but we didn't care, because it was a trip out. And twenty years later we got Teri Hatcher instead in the TV version so all was well.
1980 - Flash Gordon. Another ticketing fiasco. My mum took me and my brother to see this in the Christmas holidays, but it had sold out and so we went to see Smurfs and the Magic Flute instead, which was abysmal. We were so disappointed she gave us the money to go back the next day and see Flash Gordon and we sat on the front row, and it was amazing, at least I thought so until I saw it last week and I thought it was camper than a VW camper van.
1982 - Empire Strikes Back. Got bloody told in Tony Beecrofts back garden that Darth Vader was Luke's father so that bollocksed up going to see this one, but the much darker tone was in keeping with becoming a teenager.
1983 - Tootsie. Saw this in Germany. No bloody idea what was going on. Dustin Hoffman in a dress. Bill Murray eating lemons. Me laughing in all the wrong places.
1983 -Escape to Victory. An exception to the cinema rule, but notable as the first film I ever saw on VHS. Courtesy of my step dad, we got a top loading video recorder with a remote on a piece of wire that weighed about 70 kilograms, and this was the first film we ever watched on it.
1984 - Lady and the Tramp. Part of my trying to impress Susannah Taylor phase, I was trying to look wacky by going to see a Disney movie aged 16. Queueing up for ice cream with a load of toddlers just made me look like an arse. Not as good as the Aristocats.
1985 - Weird Science. With Katie Oddy. A totally pointless first date is to go to the cinema only, and not speak, and then say goodbye at the end and not have a clue whether you like each other, and then not see each other again out of indifference. That was me and Katie.
1985 - Back to the Future. Took my brother on the train to Leeds to see it. Incredible. Right from the opening scene I was hooked. The scorched tyre marks amazing. Look how far we'd come since Superman.
1985 - Ghostbusters. I remember going with schoolfriends aged 17 and people singing along to the theme tune during the opening credits.
1985 - The Never Ending Story. I went with Paul Edgar to see this because we had become fans of all things German and this was a Wolfgang Petersen job.
1986 - Rocky IV. Saw this with Joe Pasquale style Italian dubbing in Italy, and then took Joanne Phillips to see it on my return to England. Not really a suitable date movie. It's basically cars, rock music and people getting punched.
1986 - Out of Africa. Trying a bit harder with Joanne, by going to see a more chick friendly movie. I'm not sure if I found it genuinely moving or if I was just trying to be at one with her. Never seen it since so I don't know.
1986 - 9 and a Half Weeks. Trying too hard with Joanne but in the wrong way. Fell asleep out of sheer boredom, and what a waste of food by the lead actors. I know why it's called 9 and a half weeks. It's because that's how long you feel like you're in there for.
1987 - Children of a Lesser God. If you're trying to fight against being dumped by the girl you love, don't go see Childrne of a Lesser God. A film about two people who can't communicate because one's deaf and the other isn't, doesn't help to bridge the gap. I knew it was over after this.
1987 - Ferris Bueller's Day off. I went to see this with Dan Jackson, during our year off together. Appropriate that I went to see a film about someone having a day off when I was having a year off. I thought he was so cool then, now he just seems irresponsible (Ferris Bueller that is)
1987 - Lethal Weapon. Went to see this with Dan and Graham Tyler, who was home from Uni for Christmas.
1987 - Robocop. In 1987 you could still go see films for a pound at the Cannon cinema in Halifax. Went with my girlfriend / first wife Beverley. Not exactly a date movie. Probably the most graphically bloody movie I'd ever seen.
1990 - Total Recall. Dan was home from Uni and went to see this with him and Beverley, and she drove in our car that we'd just bought. After Robocop I was now ready for another Paul Verhoeven bloodbathm and I was genuinely wowed by the special effects.
1991 - Terminator 2. Again, special effects that could knock your socks off, but a tip for indestructible metal objects. Stop going to massive industrial complexes where there's loads of hot metal everywhere. Stay safe in the countryside.
1994 - Timecop and Stargate. When Beverley was in the Nuffield hospital after having major bowel surgery, they used to let me take her out in the evenings. Went to see these two films at the showcase, I remember she was carrying one of those cardboard hat style sick bowls around. It felt strange being there amongst all the well dressed young people, but it was nice to be out.
1995 - Apollo 13. Went to the preview screening of this before the official release, and so there were no trailers. Incredible how gripping I could find a film where I know the ending before it starts. The launch of the Saturn V rocket sequence still almost makes me cry to this day.
1998 - Flubber. having step children resulted in having to go see this total Robin Williams bollocks. Not since Smurfs and the Magic Flute with little brother have I been so bored at the cinema.
1998 - The Rugrats Movie. I paid for the four of us to go see this and to have a Burger King with money I got for having an article published in the Church Times. What a waste. Even worse than Flubber.
1998 - Armageddon. Went to see this with Ruth the first time we ever had a few days to ourselves when the kids went to their dad's for 5 days. This was more like it. I still quote it to this day.
1998 - The Truman Show. Just before it was killed by the Multiplex went to see this at the Odeon in Middlesbrough. Full of drunk teenagers, one of which puked on the seat in front of us. Pungent smell of second hand cheap cider permeated the screening.
1999 - The Phantom Menace. Spent the evening of our wedding at the cinema. The honeymoon was delayed due to Becky having to go to A&E after falling off a swing. I've still got the ticket somewhere, as a souvenir.
1999 - The Matrix. Went to see this with Ruth, and it was the last film where I was truly wowed by the special effects. Now I mostly think they spoil the film rather than make it.
2001 - 2003 - The Lord of the Rings. Three Christmasses running went to see this with Ruth and Michael. Although the films are totally preposterous I enjoyed them. The worst bit was hearing devotees of the books chuntering about plot inaccuracies during the closing credits, that and that Annie Lennox bloody theme tune woman.
2004 - The Bourne Supremacy. As well as being an incredible action movie and the best one of the trilogy, I also got to revisit Berlin and Munich vicariously through the set pieces in the film.
2007 - Hot Fuzz. Seeing our honeymoon destination being shot to pieces made me feel better about the whole disastrous episode.
2011 - Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. As if to rebel against the overuse of special effects, they have made a film which is basically just blokes in rooms talking. It was like going to see the World Staring Championships, but it was better than Transformers.
I can chart my whole life through the films I've been to see.
1971 - Diamonds are Forever. The first movie I can remember seeing at the cinema, with my dad. I was nearly 4. I have no recollection of the plot except seeing James Bond drive his car on two wheels. I don't think I ever went to the cinema with my dad again, as he died shortly after.
1974 - The Sound of Music. Not its original release date. One of only two films I can remember seeing with my mum, also went with elderly neighbour Auntie Gertie, whose house was always bloody freezing. I wanted tobe in the Von Trapp family, and wear curtains for clothes and sock it to the Nazis.
1977 - Star Wars. The first time I was ever completely blown away by a film on the big screen. George Lucas didn't need to do all that tweaking years later. If there were any technical deficiencies, my imagination filled in the gaps.
1978 - Grease. I had no desire to go see this. I went with my babysitter Susan who used to spend all her time babysitting us playing the Bee Gees and the Grease soundtrack, to the extent that the neighbours used to bang on the walls. In the days before advance ticketing we got there to find the first screening of the day was full, so we had to queue for the whole length of the film outside in the sun with no drinks until the film had run its course, and we could get in. For the record, I liked Olivia Newton John better before she got all tarted up in leather.
1979 - Superman. Went to see this with my entire primary school class, including Shelagh Peters, who I'm still in touch with till this day. I had some national health specs of my own so I looked more like Clark Kent than Superman. The special effects were rubbish, especially the running and Margot Kidder was too ugly to play Lois Lane but we didn't care, because it was a trip out. And twenty years later we got Teri Hatcher instead in the TV version so all was well.
1980 - Flash Gordon. Another ticketing fiasco. My mum took me and my brother to see this in the Christmas holidays, but it had sold out and so we went to see Smurfs and the Magic Flute instead, which was abysmal. We were so disappointed she gave us the money to go back the next day and see Flash Gordon and we sat on the front row, and it was amazing, at least I thought so until I saw it last week and I thought it was camper than a VW camper van.
1982 - Empire Strikes Back. Got bloody told in Tony Beecrofts back garden that Darth Vader was Luke's father so that bollocksed up going to see this one, but the much darker tone was in keeping with becoming a teenager.
1983 - Tootsie. Saw this in Germany. No bloody idea what was going on. Dustin Hoffman in a dress. Bill Murray eating lemons. Me laughing in all the wrong places.
1983 -Escape to Victory. An exception to the cinema rule, but notable as the first film I ever saw on VHS. Courtesy of my step dad, we got a top loading video recorder with a remote on a piece of wire that weighed about 70 kilograms, and this was the first film we ever watched on it.
1984 - Lady and the Tramp. Part of my trying to impress Susannah Taylor phase, I was trying to look wacky by going to see a Disney movie aged 16. Queueing up for ice cream with a load of toddlers just made me look like an arse. Not as good as the Aristocats.
1985 - Weird Science. With Katie Oddy. A totally pointless first date is to go to the cinema only, and not speak, and then say goodbye at the end and not have a clue whether you like each other, and then not see each other again out of indifference. That was me and Katie.
1985 - Back to the Future. Took my brother on the train to Leeds to see it. Incredible. Right from the opening scene I was hooked. The scorched tyre marks amazing. Look how far we'd come since Superman.
1985 - Ghostbusters. I remember going with schoolfriends aged 17 and people singing along to the theme tune during the opening credits.
1985 - The Never Ending Story. I went with Paul Edgar to see this because we had become fans of all things German and this was a Wolfgang Petersen job.
1986 - Rocky IV. Saw this with Joe Pasquale style Italian dubbing in Italy, and then took Joanne Phillips to see it on my return to England. Not really a suitable date movie. It's basically cars, rock music and people getting punched.
1986 - Out of Africa. Trying a bit harder with Joanne, by going to see a more chick friendly movie. I'm not sure if I found it genuinely moving or if I was just trying to be at one with her. Never seen it since so I don't know.
1986 - 9 and a Half Weeks. Trying too hard with Joanne but in the wrong way. Fell asleep out of sheer boredom, and what a waste of food by the lead actors. I know why it's called 9 and a half weeks. It's because that's how long you feel like you're in there for.
1987 - Children of a Lesser God. If you're trying to fight against being dumped by the girl you love, don't go see Childrne of a Lesser God. A film about two people who can't communicate because one's deaf and the other isn't, doesn't help to bridge the gap. I knew it was over after this.
1987 - Ferris Bueller's Day off. I went to see this with Dan Jackson, during our year off together. Appropriate that I went to see a film about someone having a day off when I was having a year off. I thought he was so cool then, now he just seems irresponsible (Ferris Bueller that is)
1987 - Lethal Weapon. Went to see this with Dan and Graham Tyler, who was home from Uni for Christmas.
1987 - Robocop. In 1987 you could still go see films for a pound at the Cannon cinema in Halifax. Went with my girlfriend / first wife Beverley. Not exactly a date movie. Probably the most graphically bloody movie I'd ever seen.
1990 - Total Recall. Dan was home from Uni and went to see this with him and Beverley, and she drove in our car that we'd just bought. After Robocop I was now ready for another Paul Verhoeven bloodbathm and I was genuinely wowed by the special effects.
1991 - Terminator 2. Again, special effects that could knock your socks off, but a tip for indestructible metal objects. Stop going to massive industrial complexes where there's loads of hot metal everywhere. Stay safe in the countryside.
1994 - Timecop and Stargate. When Beverley was in the Nuffield hospital after having major bowel surgery, they used to let me take her out in the evenings. Went to see these two films at the showcase, I remember she was carrying one of those cardboard hat style sick bowls around. It felt strange being there amongst all the well dressed young people, but it was nice to be out.
1995 - Apollo 13. Went to the preview screening of this before the official release, and so there were no trailers. Incredible how gripping I could find a film where I know the ending before it starts. The launch of the Saturn V rocket sequence still almost makes me cry to this day.
1998 - Flubber. having step children resulted in having to go see this total Robin Williams bollocks. Not since Smurfs and the Magic Flute with little brother have I been so bored at the cinema.
1998 - The Rugrats Movie. I paid for the four of us to go see this and to have a Burger King with money I got for having an article published in the Church Times. What a waste. Even worse than Flubber.
1998 - Armageddon. Went to see this with Ruth the first time we ever had a few days to ourselves when the kids went to their dad's for 5 days. This was more like it. I still quote it to this day.
1998 - The Truman Show. Just before it was killed by the Multiplex went to see this at the Odeon in Middlesbrough. Full of drunk teenagers, one of which puked on the seat in front of us. Pungent smell of second hand cheap cider permeated the screening.
1999 - The Phantom Menace. Spent the evening of our wedding at the cinema. The honeymoon was delayed due to Becky having to go to A&E after falling off a swing. I've still got the ticket somewhere, as a souvenir.
1999 - The Matrix. Went to see this with Ruth, and it was the last film where I was truly wowed by the special effects. Now I mostly think they spoil the film rather than make it.
2001 - 2003 - The Lord of the Rings. Three Christmasses running went to see this with Ruth and Michael. Although the films are totally preposterous I enjoyed them. The worst bit was hearing devotees of the books chuntering about plot inaccuracies during the closing credits, that and that Annie Lennox bloody theme tune woman.
2004 - The Bourne Supremacy. As well as being an incredible action movie and the best one of the trilogy, I also got to revisit Berlin and Munich vicariously through the set pieces in the film.
2007 - Hot Fuzz. Seeing our honeymoon destination being shot to pieces made me feel better about the whole disastrous episode.
2011 - Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. As if to rebel against the overuse of special effects, they have made a film which is basically just blokes in rooms talking. It was like going to see the World Staring Championships, but it was better than Transformers.
Tuesday, 27 December 2011
How am I going to get another job, when I've already got a bar of chocolate?
I'm getting fired on Saturday, so I'm going to be starting the New Year without a job. That would worry me except for the fact that I've got plenty of stuff in the fridge.
I've managed to reach the age of 43 and I still don't have a clue about what to do for a living. But part of the problem is I lack the motivation to go after things. All the things I want are either free or cheap, so I don't invest much time and effort into getting them.
I am aware that there are people who have proper careers, who have put years of effort into attaining qualifications etc, to enable them to do a skilled job. I'm afraid I lack the motivation to do this. Apparently there's a thing called Deferrment of Gratification. I don't have it.
Mostly my goals in life are pretty modest, like getting some sort of pie or a bar of chocolate. There were times when I was a child when I didn't have money for these things, but since I've been an adult I have pretty much had constant access. I haven't really wanted stuff like motorboats and round the world cruises, so I haven't needed to plan years ahead and build up funds for this.
When I was growing up, we didn't have a car, and we lived in a council house. I barely owned anything, and the things I did own were very low tech. Things like clothes, a football, a few toy soldiers and a bike.
These days I live in a nice house with nice things, I've got a car, two or three bikes, plenty of books and dvds and nice plates and cups and a coffee maker and I don't aspire to have any more than this. I already think my carbon footprint is huge. Just taking out the recycling lets me know how much I'm consuming every week.
The trouble is, I only have a temporary job at the moment and I will be out of work on Saturday, and I've made no strides towards getting another job. And this is mostly because my modest needs are being satisfied. I just bought a Yorkie for later so that's today sorted, and I've got enough left in my wallet to buy two tubs of ice cream tomorrow, so that'll take me through to the middle of the week.
I haven't really planned any further ahead than that. And that's what's worrying me....
I've managed to reach the age of 43 and I still don't have a clue about what to do for a living. But part of the problem is I lack the motivation to go after things. All the things I want are either free or cheap, so I don't invest much time and effort into getting them.
I am aware that there are people who have proper careers, who have put years of effort into attaining qualifications etc, to enable them to do a skilled job. I'm afraid I lack the motivation to do this. Apparently there's a thing called Deferrment of Gratification. I don't have it.
Mostly my goals in life are pretty modest, like getting some sort of pie or a bar of chocolate. There were times when I was a child when I didn't have money for these things, but since I've been an adult I have pretty much had constant access. I haven't really wanted stuff like motorboats and round the world cruises, so I haven't needed to plan years ahead and build up funds for this.
When I was growing up, we didn't have a car, and we lived in a council house. I barely owned anything, and the things I did own were very low tech. Things like clothes, a football, a few toy soldiers and a bike.
These days I live in a nice house with nice things, I've got a car, two or three bikes, plenty of books and dvds and nice plates and cups and a coffee maker and I don't aspire to have any more than this. I already think my carbon footprint is huge. Just taking out the recycling lets me know how much I'm consuming every week.
The trouble is, I only have a temporary job at the moment and I will be out of work on Saturday, and I've made no strides towards getting another job. And this is mostly because my modest needs are being satisfied. I just bought a Yorkie for later so that's today sorted, and I've got enough left in my wallet to buy two tubs of ice cream tomorrow, so that'll take me through to the middle of the week.
I haven't really planned any further ahead than that. And that's what's worrying me....
Sunday, 25 December 2011
Mopping up blood, looking for ninjas and other misadventures
Christmas Eve got off to a bad start.
I got up at 6 am for a drink of milk and there was blood all over the kichen floor. I couldn't find a body, so I had to look for another explanation. Eventually I realised that the packet on the hob with the big defrosting chunk of beef in it must have a hole in and the blood was coming from there and running down the front of the cooker.
All I wanted was a drink, but I ended up using about 3 entire kitchen rolls wiping up blood, and then I had to go off and empty the bin because I didn't want to leave stinky blood covered tissues in it.
And by this time I was up so I did some laundry and made the bed and put some stuff in drawers and took some other stuff out of drawers and put some Christmas food into cupboards and that sort of thing.
I wanted to tell Ruth about the things I'd done, and where things were but she was just arriving home from a nightshift as I was leaving for work and I only had time to get a fiver off her for the bus, and not to tell her about the kitchen bloodbath.
I was at work 10 till 6 and I really enjoyed myself. I don't normally wish strangers Happy Christmas but I did yesterday, and I meant it every time, and a lot of them had that punch drunk look about them where they are out on their feet and they need a cup of tea, so I told them to go get one.
I had some really nice conversations with people about books they were buying. I reminisced with a man who was buying a fell running book about my two attempts at the Swaledale Marathon, and it brought it all back to me, the pain and the blisters, and also the joy. And he told me about his attempts at running down hills in the snow, and we talked about fell running in general, and it was all very pleasant
And I got into a conversation about Murakami with a girl who was buying The Elephant Vanishes, and I recommended her some other stuff of his, and we chatted for a while. It brought back memories of trying to read the Wind up Bird Chronicle on the harbour wall at Mevagissey while Michael was fishing, and again it took me back to happy summer days, and it was great to share my enthusiasm with someone, Even if a lot of the job is putting stickers on stuff, it's lovely to be able to talk about things you love with complete strangers, and for a few minutes at least to actually know what you're talking about.
Then another bonus. After weeks of having 15 minute breaks by myself and having to fire sandwiches into myself without them touching the sides I got to have two 45 minute breaks with other people yesterday. It went to my head and I got verbal diarrhoea.
On the first break I talked about dads and step dads mostly. I reminisced about the time my mum sent me off in the car with my step dad to try and find his AWOL son who had been going round dressed like a ninja smashing windows with nunchakas, but all we found was a famous Leeds United footballer instead, and I can tell you what a relief that was. On the whole, it's easier to find Leeds United footballers than ninjas anyway because they play in white whereas ninjas wear black and are like stealth warriors and you're not supposed to be able to find them and when you're 15 and scared of ninjas with nunchakas this is a good thing.
Then on the second break I talked a lot about the prospective imminent death of my whole family from eating food prepared on top of the raw blood from this morning that I hadn't used detergent on, but only hot water and kitchen roll.
About 3 pm I tried to coordinate by text the arrival of my mum for Christmas with the waking up of Ruth, so she could get on with the pot roast dinner, and cook the beef that had been bleeding all night, and in the end my mum had to ring the house phone to get Ruth up, because she didn't want to alarm her by going into the bedroom unexpectedly.
I finished work at 6 and to be honest I'd had enough by 4 because the last hour we were open it was mostly drunk blokes coming in to do some panic buying and I didn't try very hard with a guy who waned an Amy Winehouse book because his breath was nearly knocking me over, and I hope the guy who still had to buy an XBox for his kids and an engagement ring managed to get sorted in time, otherwise he's going to be in a lot of trouble.
And the hour between 5 and 6 was hard too, because it was so hot in the shop that I could have cooked a Christmas dinner on my own head, and I couldn't even eat any free chocolate because I was too dry to get it down and I would have just ended up looking like I'd fallen in some.
I got home at 7 and Ruth was cooking the dinner, and oh my god, you've never seen dinner like it. She's not on top form after being on nights, and she'd made an incredible disappearing casserole. My mum had seen her put tons of veg in with the beef but now it had all been completely destroyed. The beef was still in there, although it was looking fairly black, but the vegetables, which like us are mostly water anyway, had been nuked to oblivion and apart from the meat we only got a teaspoon of caramelised veg out of the dish, and it was the same colour as the meat, so we couldn't find it on the serving plate.
And then there was the mashed potato! It was like wallpaper paste. Oh, the bemused faces of my mum and Michael as it was being glooped out of the pan! As Ruth was still pretty knackered anyway after her night shifts she got as much on the table as on the plates, and it was impossible to wipe up. I made some gravy to pour on the black meat and the white paste, and thank goodness the cauliflower had been cooked separately and not added to the casserole, because that actually came out looking like cauliflower.
The Murakami story The Elephant Vanishes is about an elephant that gets smaller and smaller until it disappears, and that was a lot like our pot roast. I don't think it could have been more overcooked if it had been fired round the Large Hadron Collider for the evening.
I wasn't annoyed with Ruth, because she's been ill and her foot's been hurting and she gets exhausted after nights, and the dinner was so bonkers we just laughed all the way through eating it, and then for the whole evening after and although I was laughing I was hoping we don't burn the Christmas dinner tomorrow, especially the pigs in blankets because I don't want them all black and charred.
I somehow got elected to do the dishes, and I don't know what was worse. The mashed potato that was like wallpaper paste, and which was 100% not water soluble, or the blackened charred casserole residue. Anyway, it took me well over an hour and a half to wash up, but there was no way I was starting Christmas Day with last night's dishes, so even though my hands were bright red and I had no fingerprints left I kept going until there was no trace of the dinner left, except on the inside of the bin, where some of the potato was in there sticking to anything that came anywhere near it.
I had a nice chat with Michael about action movies, and special effects when he kept popping in to dry up some pots and I also chatted to my mum while I was slumped over the sink and amongst other things we discussed various methods for dislodging blackened tar and white glue from plates and dishes.
And about 10 O'clock I finally I got to sit down in the room that we've been trying to get ready for a month. I had a gin and tonic and we watched Have I Got News for You and Rev and I've never laughed so much in my life, and mostly it wasn't at the TV, it was at the unbelievability of what I'd seen in the kitchen.
And although I started the day cleaning up blood, and I finished it cleaning up dark matter and wallpaper paste, I had a really nice time. I genuinely felt full of peace and goodwill, and it was lovely sitting around laughing with my mum after she's been so ill recently, and I actually had a conversation with Michael, which is a rare thing these days. I enjoyed the company of the staff and customers at Waterstone's all day and I enjoyed telling my stories to them and it was one of the best Christmas Eves I can ever remember.
I just hope the Christmas Day dishes are a bit easier, as I've barely got any hands left.
I got up at 6 am for a drink of milk and there was blood all over the kichen floor. I couldn't find a body, so I had to look for another explanation. Eventually I realised that the packet on the hob with the big defrosting chunk of beef in it must have a hole in and the blood was coming from there and running down the front of the cooker.
All I wanted was a drink, but I ended up using about 3 entire kitchen rolls wiping up blood, and then I had to go off and empty the bin because I didn't want to leave stinky blood covered tissues in it.
And by this time I was up so I did some laundry and made the bed and put some stuff in drawers and took some other stuff out of drawers and put some Christmas food into cupboards and that sort of thing.
I wanted to tell Ruth about the things I'd done, and where things were but she was just arriving home from a nightshift as I was leaving for work and I only had time to get a fiver off her for the bus, and not to tell her about the kitchen bloodbath.
I was at work 10 till 6 and I really enjoyed myself. I don't normally wish strangers Happy Christmas but I did yesterday, and I meant it every time, and a lot of them had that punch drunk look about them where they are out on their feet and they need a cup of tea, so I told them to go get one.
I had some really nice conversations with people about books they were buying. I reminisced with a man who was buying a fell running book about my two attempts at the Swaledale Marathon, and it brought it all back to me, the pain and the blisters, and also the joy. And he told me about his attempts at running down hills in the snow, and we talked about fell running in general, and it was all very pleasant
And I got into a conversation about Murakami with a girl who was buying The Elephant Vanishes, and I recommended her some other stuff of his, and we chatted for a while. It brought back memories of trying to read the Wind up Bird Chronicle on the harbour wall at Mevagissey while Michael was fishing, and again it took me back to happy summer days, and it was great to share my enthusiasm with someone, Even if a lot of the job is putting stickers on stuff, it's lovely to be able to talk about things you love with complete strangers, and for a few minutes at least to actually know what you're talking about.
Then another bonus. After weeks of having 15 minute breaks by myself and having to fire sandwiches into myself without them touching the sides I got to have two 45 minute breaks with other people yesterday. It went to my head and I got verbal diarrhoea.
On the first break I talked about dads and step dads mostly. I reminisced about the time my mum sent me off in the car with my step dad to try and find his AWOL son who had been going round dressed like a ninja smashing windows with nunchakas, but all we found was a famous Leeds United footballer instead, and I can tell you what a relief that was. On the whole, it's easier to find Leeds United footballers than ninjas anyway because they play in white whereas ninjas wear black and are like stealth warriors and you're not supposed to be able to find them and when you're 15 and scared of ninjas with nunchakas this is a good thing.
Then on the second break I talked a lot about the prospective imminent death of my whole family from eating food prepared on top of the raw blood from this morning that I hadn't used detergent on, but only hot water and kitchen roll.
About 3 pm I tried to coordinate by text the arrival of my mum for Christmas with the waking up of Ruth, so she could get on with the pot roast dinner, and cook the beef that had been bleeding all night, and in the end my mum had to ring the house phone to get Ruth up, because she didn't want to alarm her by going into the bedroom unexpectedly.
I finished work at 6 and to be honest I'd had enough by 4 because the last hour we were open it was mostly drunk blokes coming in to do some panic buying and I didn't try very hard with a guy who waned an Amy Winehouse book because his breath was nearly knocking me over, and I hope the guy who still had to buy an XBox for his kids and an engagement ring managed to get sorted in time, otherwise he's going to be in a lot of trouble.
And the hour between 5 and 6 was hard too, because it was so hot in the shop that I could have cooked a Christmas dinner on my own head, and I couldn't even eat any free chocolate because I was too dry to get it down and I would have just ended up looking like I'd fallen in some.
I got home at 7 and Ruth was cooking the dinner, and oh my god, you've never seen dinner like it. She's not on top form after being on nights, and she'd made an incredible disappearing casserole. My mum had seen her put tons of veg in with the beef but now it had all been completely destroyed. The beef was still in there, although it was looking fairly black, but the vegetables, which like us are mostly water anyway, had been nuked to oblivion and apart from the meat we only got a teaspoon of caramelised veg out of the dish, and it was the same colour as the meat, so we couldn't find it on the serving plate.
And then there was the mashed potato! It was like wallpaper paste. Oh, the bemused faces of my mum and Michael as it was being glooped out of the pan! As Ruth was still pretty knackered anyway after her night shifts she got as much on the table as on the plates, and it was impossible to wipe up. I made some gravy to pour on the black meat and the white paste, and thank goodness the cauliflower had been cooked separately and not added to the casserole, because that actually came out looking like cauliflower.
The Murakami story The Elephant Vanishes is about an elephant that gets smaller and smaller until it disappears, and that was a lot like our pot roast. I don't think it could have been more overcooked if it had been fired round the Large Hadron Collider for the evening.
I wasn't annoyed with Ruth, because she's been ill and her foot's been hurting and she gets exhausted after nights, and the dinner was so bonkers we just laughed all the way through eating it, and then for the whole evening after and although I was laughing I was hoping we don't burn the Christmas dinner tomorrow, especially the pigs in blankets because I don't want them all black and charred.
I somehow got elected to do the dishes, and I don't know what was worse. The mashed potato that was like wallpaper paste, and which was 100% not water soluble, or the blackened charred casserole residue. Anyway, it took me well over an hour and a half to wash up, but there was no way I was starting Christmas Day with last night's dishes, so even though my hands were bright red and I had no fingerprints left I kept going until there was no trace of the dinner left, except on the inside of the bin, where some of the potato was in there sticking to anything that came anywhere near it.
I had a nice chat with Michael about action movies, and special effects when he kept popping in to dry up some pots and I also chatted to my mum while I was slumped over the sink and amongst other things we discussed various methods for dislodging blackened tar and white glue from plates and dishes.
And about 10 O'clock I finally I got to sit down in the room that we've been trying to get ready for a month. I had a gin and tonic and we watched Have I Got News for You and Rev and I've never laughed so much in my life, and mostly it wasn't at the TV, it was at the unbelievability of what I'd seen in the kitchen.
And although I started the day cleaning up blood, and I finished it cleaning up dark matter and wallpaper paste, I had a really nice time. I genuinely felt full of peace and goodwill, and it was lovely sitting around laughing with my mum after she's been so ill recently, and I actually had a conversation with Michael, which is a rare thing these days. I enjoyed the company of the staff and customers at Waterstone's all day and I enjoyed telling my stories to them and it was one of the best Christmas Eves I can ever remember.
I just hope the Christmas Day dishes are a bit easier, as I've barely got any hands left.
Friday, 23 December 2011
I give up! - The TV's so small I can't even see it
Recently I have managed to cut down my TV watching by exchanging the big telly for a medium sized one, and sitting further away from it. So far so good.
Then Michael came home from Uni, and he took the medium sized telly up to his bedroom, and he left me with a portable telly. I could barely see the actual TV anymore, never mind make out anything that was happening on it, so that reduced my viewing pleasure even further. As a result I've been putting the radio on even more, because I don't need to see Stuart Maconie to know what's going on in his show.
And by putting the radio on, I got to hear a brilliant interview with Johnny Marr. I usually think musicians are pretty boring to listen to, but he was anything but.
Trying to see the telly has become so bloody hopeless that I took the TV and the TV stand away, and stuck a Christmas tree there instead of both of them. And now Michael has commandeered the big telly that's attached to the DVD player, so I haven't got a hope of watching anything on TV these days.
The funny thing is, I am not really missing it. And I am getting more done.
So my life at the moment is, evolutionally speaking, going into reverse. I am regressing from a coach potato into a walking talking homo sapien. Today I even managed to master the fundamentals of basic tool use.
Hooray for no TV.
Then Michael came home from Uni, and he took the medium sized telly up to his bedroom, and he left me with a portable telly. I could barely see the actual TV anymore, never mind make out anything that was happening on it, so that reduced my viewing pleasure even further. As a result I've been putting the radio on even more, because I don't need to see Stuart Maconie to know what's going on in his show.
And by putting the radio on, I got to hear a brilliant interview with Johnny Marr. I usually think musicians are pretty boring to listen to, but he was anything but.
Trying to see the telly has become so bloody hopeless that I took the TV and the TV stand away, and stuck a Christmas tree there instead of both of them. And now Michael has commandeered the big telly that's attached to the DVD player, so I haven't got a hope of watching anything on TV these days.
The funny thing is, I am not really missing it. And I am getting more done.
So my life at the moment is, evolutionally speaking, going into reverse. I am regressing from a coach potato into a walking talking homo sapien. Today I even managed to master the fundamentals of basic tool use.
Hooray for no TV.
Bert Trautmann, Harriet's Biscuits and other reasons to be cheerful this Christmas
I usually hate Christmas. Or rather I hate having to do anything at Christmas.
I can't be bothered to shop, or to put the tree up, I rarely send Christmas cards and I resent spending money. All in all, this doesn't make me Mr Festive Cheer 2011 or whichever year I'm moaning about.
I moan endlessly about the commercialisation of Christmas, and about greed and wanting stuff and all that. Blah blah blah I go on.
Well, this year I'm almost enjoying it. And as crazy as it sounds, a lot of it has been to do with working in a shop. I haven't exactly been doing a survey, but the feeling I get from most people isn't that they've been half Nelsoned into the shops to buy stuff for their loved ones. They actually seem like they want to do it, as if they like giving gifts to people they love. Some of them seem genuinely excited, as if they can't wait to hand them over. And old ladies who can't walk very well have got their coats on, got on buses and brought themselves into town to buy a gift voucher for their grandson, or whoever. And people have been buying books about Bert Trautmann for their dads who remember the 1956 Cup Final when he played on with a broken neck. And other people have been giggling at the till while they're buying books of jokes for their 52 year old dad, so he can sit in the chair full of Turkey and smashed on sherry with a paper hat on, and tell a few jokes before he passes out in front of the Queen. And two girls could barely speak when they asked me for a book called 'How to Poo at Work', which is full of diagrams of cubicles and lots of real advice on etiquette and all sorts. That will really make someone's Christmas Day (I hope).
And I've been food shopping twice. And today I was in there hours, and thank goodness I wasn't being time and motion studied because I did more laps of the fruit and veg section than they do laps of the track in the Grand Prix, and I didn't even know what some of the stuff was I was supposed to be buying. I'd heard of cloves of Garlic, but today I had to buy garlic-less cloves and I wasn't sure if they're fresh or powdered or they come in tubes or what. They didn't have any anyway. Or any lemons or cooking apples or muffins or red potatoes (so that's my Christmas ruined).
And I got my foot run over, and I had to ask a shelf stacker to look after my trolley while I went to go pee, because I'd been in there so long my bladder had packed up, but I didn't mind at all. I liked being in amongst people. People buying things to make a nice dinner for their mother who's getting over a stroke, or for their stepson who is home from uni (oh hang on, that was just me).
But whatever they were in there for, they were people buying things to help them to enjoy spending time with their loved ones, and that can't be a bad thing can it?
There's a Half Man Half Biscuit song, called It's Cliched to be Cynical at Christmas, and I just listened to it, and I think I am a cliche, because I moan a lot about Christmas. Well, moaning doesn't make the Christmas dinner, and it doesn't wrap presents, and it doesn't put any more love in the world.
So, I have put up a tree, and I have decorated it really badly, so it only looks any good from one particular angle if you don't look closely. And I sent 6 Christmas cards, including one to the Chemist to thank them for all the drugs, and I've bought one of just about every type of dead animal there is that you can eat.
And I'm looking forward to Christmas. And I don't need any presents, because I've already had a really special one. I got a parcel with biscuits in that were made by my small friend Harriet, and some of them had melted boiled sweets in the middle to look like stained glass, and some were in the shape of boots and hearts and I ate them with my cup of tea one morning, before I went off to work, to sell books to people. And it made me feel happy. And selling books and knowing Harriet are just two of the reasons why I want to be better at Christmas this year.
I can't be bothered to shop, or to put the tree up, I rarely send Christmas cards and I resent spending money. All in all, this doesn't make me Mr Festive Cheer 2011 or whichever year I'm moaning about.
I moan endlessly about the commercialisation of Christmas, and about greed and wanting stuff and all that. Blah blah blah I go on.
Well, this year I'm almost enjoying it. And as crazy as it sounds, a lot of it has been to do with working in a shop. I haven't exactly been doing a survey, but the feeling I get from most people isn't that they've been half Nelsoned into the shops to buy stuff for their loved ones. They actually seem like they want to do it, as if they like giving gifts to people they love. Some of them seem genuinely excited, as if they can't wait to hand them over. And old ladies who can't walk very well have got their coats on, got on buses and brought themselves into town to buy a gift voucher for their grandson, or whoever. And people have been buying books about Bert Trautmann for their dads who remember the 1956 Cup Final when he played on with a broken neck. And other people have been giggling at the till while they're buying books of jokes for their 52 year old dad, so he can sit in the chair full of Turkey and smashed on sherry with a paper hat on, and tell a few jokes before he passes out in front of the Queen. And two girls could barely speak when they asked me for a book called 'How to Poo at Work', which is full of diagrams of cubicles and lots of real advice on etiquette and all sorts. That will really make someone's Christmas Day (I hope).
And I've been food shopping twice. And today I was in there hours, and thank goodness I wasn't being time and motion studied because I did more laps of the fruit and veg section than they do laps of the track in the Grand Prix, and I didn't even know what some of the stuff was I was supposed to be buying. I'd heard of cloves of Garlic, but today I had to buy garlic-less cloves and I wasn't sure if they're fresh or powdered or they come in tubes or what. They didn't have any anyway. Or any lemons or cooking apples or muffins or red potatoes (so that's my Christmas ruined).
And I got my foot run over, and I had to ask a shelf stacker to look after my trolley while I went to go pee, because I'd been in there so long my bladder had packed up, but I didn't mind at all. I liked being in amongst people. People buying things to make a nice dinner for their mother who's getting over a stroke, or for their stepson who is home from uni (oh hang on, that was just me).
But whatever they were in there for, they were people buying things to help them to enjoy spending time with their loved ones, and that can't be a bad thing can it?
There's a Half Man Half Biscuit song, called It's Cliched to be Cynical at Christmas, and I just listened to it, and I think I am a cliche, because I moan a lot about Christmas. Well, moaning doesn't make the Christmas dinner, and it doesn't wrap presents, and it doesn't put any more love in the world.
So, I have put up a tree, and I have decorated it really badly, so it only looks any good from one particular angle if you don't look closely. And I sent 6 Christmas cards, including one to the Chemist to thank them for all the drugs, and I've bought one of just about every type of dead animal there is that you can eat.
And I'm looking forward to Christmas. And I don't need any presents, because I've already had a really special one. I got a parcel with biscuits in that were made by my small friend Harriet, and some of them had melted boiled sweets in the middle to look like stained glass, and some were in the shape of boots and hearts and I ate them with my cup of tea one morning, before I went off to work, to sell books to people. And it made me feel happy. And selling books and knowing Harriet are just two of the reasons why I want to be better at Christmas this year.
Thursday, 22 December 2011
Wearing matching tops, falling down stairs and picking up Bishops
Last summer I did a Coast to Coast bike ride with some other people, and it went quite well.
We didn't follow one of the routes devised by those nice people at Sustrans. Instead we made up our own, and it started at Walney Island and finished in Saltburn. The whole thing was the Chief's idea, but me having ridden a bike quite a lot I soon got involved in the planning and before I knew it I had agreed to be the map man, riding in front and looking for the way. Before we went, I did a risk assessment, and I decided that there was some, but even sitting at home in a bungalow wrapped in bubble wrap and wearing no socks carries some risk, so I decided to go for it anyway.
It didn't run entirely smoothly, but thankfully none of the mishaps ended up being terminal. I organised a bike bus to get us over to Barrow on the Thursday night, and they sent a bus which couldn't get up hills, so it took almost as long to get to Barrow as if we rode there.
As we sat around in the pub in Barrow having curry and beer the night before the ride, I looked around at the 14 of us, many of whom don't ride bikes, and I felt very, very afraid. I looked at Ruth and Suzanne and Graeme, and they looked at me, and then we looked at the others and I thought, this is going to be a disaster.
But it wasn't. I did a few practice laps of Walney / Barrow before we set off because I didn't want to start the ride by taking a wrong turn into Tesco car park. This paid off as I took us the right way, and before long we were on the coast road out of Barrow with a massive tailwind going along at 16 mph. And I looked behind me and we were all in matching tops and it was like being in a team again, like I used to be at school, and it was great, and also worringly easy. I'd spent months telling everyone how hard and slow cycle touring can be, but this wasn't either of those things..
The beauty of designing your own route is that you can go in a straight line if you want to, and the lack of zig zagging and the use of A and B roads instead of tiny little minor roads with massive hedges on both sides meant that we made it to our lunch stop at Cark in good time. The sun was out and we had beer and sausage sandwiches, and it all seemed a bit too easy. Then after lunch we went through a lovely flat bit and we could see hills but we didn't have to go up any, and the only bad bit of the whole day was getting into Kendal, as it has a one way system that doesn't work, as well as lots of roadworks. Oh, except for Adam falling in a ditch and Clay crashing into a wall, but they were only small blunders and not full-on You've Been Framers.
So Friday night we sat around outside the Youth Hostel having a few drinks and congratulating ourselves and then we went out for yet more curry. After the curry I went in to watch Brazil get knocked out of the World Cup by Holland and all was right with the world, until I got a phone call to say that Graeme had been hospitalised.
He had been trying to slide down a banister which sounds fairly innocuous until you saw the banister and the concrete staircase next to it. I've seen bobsleigh runs which look less scary. Anyway, he did a few commando rolls down the concrete stairs and managed not to kill himself but only just. He had an ankle like the end of Misery and a wrist to match.
I even found a short cut which trimmed 3 miles off the route, but unfortunately the short cut took us up a massive hill. There were more hills after that, and it was all taking longer than the day before so lunch had to be sandwiches and pop sitting on the floor in the car park in Sedbergh as there wasn't time for lazing around at the pub. After that, the route became more undulating and there was a lovely stretch through Dentdale to Dent followed by a long and steep climb through and past the Dent Head Viaduct where Frances was waiting to cheer us on at the top. This was followed by a fantastic 7 mile descent into Hawes. I started off at the front on this but was overtaken by almost everyone on the way down. Most people achieved personal best fastest times ever. I didn't, mostly because I kept the brakes on out of sheer terror.
We didn't follow one of the routes devised by those nice people at Sustrans. Instead we made up our own, and it started at Walney Island and finished in Saltburn. The whole thing was the Chief's idea, but me having ridden a bike quite a lot I soon got involved in the planning and before I knew it I had agreed to be the map man, riding in front and looking for the way. Before we went, I did a risk assessment, and I decided that there was some, but even sitting at home in a bungalow wrapped in bubble wrap and wearing no socks carries some risk, so I decided to go for it anyway.
It didn't run entirely smoothly, but thankfully none of the mishaps ended up being terminal. I organised a bike bus to get us over to Barrow on the Thursday night, and they sent a bus which couldn't get up hills, so it took almost as long to get to Barrow as if we rode there.
As we sat around in the pub in Barrow having curry and beer the night before the ride, I looked around at the 14 of us, many of whom don't ride bikes, and I felt very, very afraid. I looked at Ruth and Suzanne and Graeme, and they looked at me, and then we looked at the others and I thought, this is going to be a disaster.
But it wasn't. I did a few practice laps of Walney / Barrow before we set off because I didn't want to start the ride by taking a wrong turn into Tesco car park. This paid off as I took us the right way, and before long we were on the coast road out of Barrow with a massive tailwind going along at 16 mph. And I looked behind me and we were all in matching tops and it was like being in a team again, like I used to be at school, and it was great, and also worringly easy. I'd spent months telling everyone how hard and slow cycle touring can be, but this wasn't either of those things..
The beauty of designing your own route is that you can go in a straight line if you want to, and the lack of zig zagging and the use of A and B roads instead of tiny little minor roads with massive hedges on both sides meant that we made it to our lunch stop at Cark in good time. The sun was out and we had beer and sausage sandwiches, and it all seemed a bit too easy. Then after lunch we went through a lovely flat bit and we could see hills but we didn't have to go up any, and the only bad bit of the whole day was getting into Kendal, as it has a one way system that doesn't work, as well as lots of roadworks. Oh, except for Adam falling in a ditch and Clay crashing into a wall, but they were only small blunders and not full-on You've Been Framers.
So Friday night we sat around outside the Youth Hostel having a few drinks and congratulating ourselves and then we went out for yet more curry. After the curry I went in to watch Brazil get knocked out of the World Cup by Holland and all was right with the world, until I got a phone call to say that Graeme had been hospitalised.
He had been trying to slide down a banister which sounds fairly innocuous until you saw the banister and the concrete staircase next to it. I've seen bobsleigh runs which look less scary. Anyway, he did a few commando rolls down the concrete stairs and managed not to kill himself but only just. He had an ankle like the end of Misery and a wrist to match.
So off he went to Lancaster to the hospital and the next morning over breakfast I was just saying how lucky he was not falling on his head, and just as I was saying it, Jen fell on her head. The sound of a small thin person falling over
was surprisingly loud. I suppose
when we pass out and we no longer have any muscular control, all we are is just a big bag of water, so it was quite reasonable to make a big bang. Off she went to the hospital and hopped into the bed that Graeme had just hopped out of.
Some people seemed to be wavering at this point about going
on, as things were turning into a slasher movie. I just wanted to get out of Kendal before any more of us got picked off by someone in a Scream mask.
This was harder than it sounds because the one way system is more of a closed loop that goes round in round in circles with no exits, but eventually we did manage to get out of there.
I even found a short cut which trimmed 3 miles off the route, but unfortunately the short cut took us up a massive hill. There were more hills after that, and it was all taking longer than the day before so lunch had to be sandwiches and pop sitting on the floor in the car park in Sedbergh as there wasn't time for lazing around at the pub. After that, the route became more undulating and there was a lovely stretch through Dentdale to Dent followed by a long and steep climb through and past the Dent Head Viaduct where Frances was waiting to cheer us on at the top. This was followed by a fantastic 7 mile descent into Hawes. I started off at the front on this but was overtaken by almost everyone on the way down. Most people achieved personal best fastest times ever. I didn't, mostly because I kept the brakes on out of sheer terror.
I was flagging by Askrigg but Ruth bought me some Sprite and a pie with lots of pastry but no filling from the very friendly local shop for local people and we pressed on to Leyburn. Once in Leyburn we checked in to our dreamy B&B (Eastfield
Lodge) which had a magic shower and in only 4 minutes I felt full of
life again. Kendal Youth Hostel it was not.
As a group we met up at the Golden Lion in the evening
(staff and food were both great, I had
Pork Medallions) and we discussed subjects many and varied including Derek
Nimmo as Mr Spock and the statue like goalkeeping of Peter Shilton. As a
special magical bonus Argentina got knocked out of the World Cup, and we got to
see Maradona looking fat and bemused on the sidelines, instead of out-jumping Shilton
for once.
Day 3 got off to a bad start, as I couldn't find Ruth in our B&B and this held up the start. The wind was horrendous, but thankfully behind us, and off we went again. After Bedale I started to relax because from there I knew the way and I didn't need the map anymore.
We passed quite close to home, but didn't go there and in Stokesley we picked up a Bishop and he beat us all up some hills in casual clothing and when we got to the top of the Moors we could see the sea, and it was a beautiful sight because the sun had come out, and once I could see the sea, I knew we'd make it, and we did and I felt quite emotional at the end, because I'd found the way from Sea to Sea, and all the hospitalisations that had happened weren't because of me.
It was lovely group to ride with because nobody moaned about anything, and this was helped no end by taking a big happy Welshman along with us, who just kept marvelling at the scenery.
And apart from the hospitalisations, we were lucky. Because we never had to ride into the wind or in the rain at all. We had to ride up hills and some of them were big, and it was still an achievement to do it. But it did help our morale that conditions were favourable, because I have been on cycle tours that descend into farcical river bed bike-dragging in torrential rain and this was not it.
As some famous golfer once said though, the more I practice, the luckier I get, and we deserved our bit of luck, because it was the most overprepared and well-supported Coast to Coast ride in history. We had not only driven the route in advance, but we had spares for the spares and backup for the backup and even a spare bike, which was just as well, since John Munro turned up on a rustbucket with an orange chain and some sort of soft cheese for tyres.
We had Bob following us round in a giant van full of water and innertubes and we couldn't really go wrong, and we didn't. And I got to be in another team photo wearing matching tops. Which hadn't happened to me since I was at school.
Here it is:
We also managed to raise about £3600 for the Great North Air Ambulance as a result of the ride which was a great effort by everyone.
We did have to call a couple of land ambulances out during the ride, so our account wasn't entirely in credit with the ambulance people, but you can't have everything.
On the left are the ones that finished in Saltburn. John Munro had to go home early and a couple of the others were in the hospital.
Here it is:
We did have to call a couple of land ambulances out during the ride, so our account wasn't entirely in credit with the ambulance people, but you can't have everything.
On the left are the ones that finished in Saltburn. John Munro had to go home early and a couple of the others were in the hospital.
May 1979 - I only popped out for a hot dog, and they let Thatcher in
The first time I had mustard was up the Eiffel Tower. I bought a hot dog, and they had this yellow stuff in bottles, and I thought that must be French ketchup and so I piled loads of it on my hot dog and then seconds later my tongue was melting off, and the hot dog ended up in the bin at the top of the Eiffel Tower.
But since then I have developed a taste for mustard and I often have it in sandwiches, and when I do it makes me think of my mum making us sandwiches when I was younger because she generally puts mustard in sandwiches, especially ham ones.
That trip to France was in May 1979. It was the first time I'd ever been abroad. I only went out of the country for 5 days, and Thatcher got elected while I was gone. I found this out from a teacher who had bought a paper on the Champs Elysees. She got in again in 1987 while I was in Germany. She was always getting elected while I was out of the country.
That trip was great, but the coach journey wasn't. We didn't go on one of those fancy buses with the toilets that they have now. We just went on the same Wallace Arnold bus that we used to go a mile up the road to Kippax swimming baths in. They're fine for just nipping round the corner, but they're not much good for an 18 hour journey to Paris.
That trip cost £63 which was an absolute bargain. I also got a £4 reduction for not having a dad, because it should have been £67 but we asked for a reduction for being a one parent family.
I took some spending money, and I can't remember how much, but I know it cost 40p for a hot chocolate at the services at 5 in the morning and the West German football team were also in the services on their way back from beating Wales in a Euro 1980 qualifier. I only recognised them from the tracksuits. I didn't know who they were. I bet the present international football teams don't stop at the services for a bacon bun and a ripoff coffee.
We got to see all the sights of Paris. As well as the Eiffel Tower, we went to the Arc de Triomphe, the Louvre and Sacre Coeur. I got terrified on the top of the Arc de Triomphe because I thought I might fall off, with the top being open, and even though the Eiffel Tower is a lot higher and you can feel it sway in the wind, it's all closed in so you can't fall off and that was okay. I also saw the Mona Lisa and I was surprised how small it was. We did also get driven round Paris at night on the Wally Arnold bus and got to see it all lit up.
One night in the hotel the teachers all went off to the bar to get hammered with the bus drivers and they left us unattended and we were running around the corridors of the hotel throwing fig biscuits at each other, and some of the girls were doing handstands against the wall and showing their knickers. I'd never seen a fig biscuit before and having tried one at a later time I can see why they were getting thrown about rather than eaten. They're horrible.
And I shared a room with Richard Sharp and Andrew Greenwood, and we had bedside tables with lights in and I didn't see Andrew for about 5 years after that and the next time I did he was riding down Garforth Main Street on a bike with a green mohican (haircut, not a person).
At the time I took it all for granted, but now I marvel at the organisational skills of teachers, for taking a group of small children to a foreign country and taking us round all the sights of Paris. I don't even like looking after small children while their parents are in the loo.
But since then I have developed a taste for mustard and I often have it in sandwiches, and when I do it makes me think of my mum making us sandwiches when I was younger because she generally puts mustard in sandwiches, especially ham ones.
That trip to France was in May 1979. It was the first time I'd ever been abroad. I only went out of the country for 5 days, and Thatcher got elected while I was gone. I found this out from a teacher who had bought a paper on the Champs Elysees. She got in again in 1987 while I was in Germany. She was always getting elected while I was out of the country.
That trip was great, but the coach journey wasn't. We didn't go on one of those fancy buses with the toilets that they have now. We just went on the same Wallace Arnold bus that we used to go a mile up the road to Kippax swimming baths in. They're fine for just nipping round the corner, but they're not much good for an 18 hour journey to Paris.
That trip cost £63 which was an absolute bargain. I also got a £4 reduction for not having a dad, because it should have been £67 but we asked for a reduction for being a one parent family.
I took some spending money, and I can't remember how much, but I know it cost 40p for a hot chocolate at the services at 5 in the morning and the West German football team were also in the services on their way back from beating Wales in a Euro 1980 qualifier. I only recognised them from the tracksuits. I didn't know who they were. I bet the present international football teams don't stop at the services for a bacon bun and a ripoff coffee.
We got to see all the sights of Paris. As well as the Eiffel Tower, we went to the Arc de Triomphe, the Louvre and Sacre Coeur. I got terrified on the top of the Arc de Triomphe because I thought I might fall off, with the top being open, and even though the Eiffel Tower is a lot higher and you can feel it sway in the wind, it's all closed in so you can't fall off and that was okay. I also saw the Mona Lisa and I was surprised how small it was. We did also get driven round Paris at night on the Wally Arnold bus and got to see it all lit up.
One night in the hotel the teachers all went off to the bar to get hammered with the bus drivers and they left us unattended and we were running around the corridors of the hotel throwing fig biscuits at each other, and some of the girls were doing handstands against the wall and showing their knickers. I'd never seen a fig biscuit before and having tried one at a later time I can see why they were getting thrown about rather than eaten. They're horrible.
And I shared a room with Richard Sharp and Andrew Greenwood, and we had bedside tables with lights in and I didn't see Andrew for about 5 years after that and the next time I did he was riding down Garforth Main Street on a bike with a green mohican (haircut, not a person).
At the time I took it all for granted, but now I marvel at the organisational skills of teachers, for taking a group of small children to a foreign country and taking us round all the sights of Paris. I don't even like looking after small children while their parents are in the loo.
Wednesday, 21 December 2011
I could have had more girlfriends if I hadn't been over-reliant on buses
I've been catching buses a lot lately. And it's been working out okay. Because my house is at one end of the 10 minute bus ride, and Waterstone's in Middlesbrough is at the other end.
The only bit that hasn't been working out is that some of the buses have these shiny new seats, and it's impossible to stay on them when the bus goes round corners. I mean, why make a seat out of shiny stuff? It makes no sense. There's no friction.
When buses don't work out, is when they don't join up places you want to go to. This hampered me a lot during the ages of 15 and 17 when I wanted to go out with girls.
It would have all been different if I'd gone to the local comprehensive, because girls would then have been walking distance away, but most of the ones I met were through school in Leeds, and they all lived miles away.
Looking back though, and considering the miniscule percentage of girls I liked that would actually go out with me, it seems incredible to me now that I was put off by the lack of a direct bus service, but I was.
It was only when I started riding my bike long distances in the last few years, that I realised how easy it could have been for me to get to girls' houses. Especially when I discovered with the aid of Google maps, that most of the ones I'd been put off going to see, lived within a 12 mile radius of my house. That's an hour on a bike!
It all started to come home to me how lazy I'd been last year when I rode home from my mum's in Leeds, via York (an 86 mile trip). Only 4 miles into this ride I found myself in Sherburn in Elmet, where Rachel Waterfield had lived 27 years before. 4 miles! I could have walked that, but in 1983 after meeting Rachel at a party, I managed to let things fizzle out badly during my follow-up phone call to her because of the lack of a direct bus service. Why didn't I just get on a bike, I could have been there in 20 minutes?
And Joanne McAndrew. She lived in Alwoodley which was 10 miles away from Garforth on the Leeds Ring Road, and there was a bus that went from about a mile away from my house to hers, but I couldn't be bothered to walk the mile. In her case I did once ride it, on the 5 speed racing bike that I had then and didn't like, but it was when I worked at Rawcliffes and having no fashion sense I had bought some terrible sweat gathering jogging outfit which I cycled there in. The fact that I was wearing that was probably reason enough for the relationship not to get off the ground, but again I felt the difficulty of the transport options was a factor. The ring road is quite a busy road, and there's a lot of roundabouts, and I just totally failed to persevere either with the cycling, or the walk to the bus stop, even though she was funny and attractive.
And Susannah Baynard. Admittedly I didn't help my case with her, by not dancing very well at the disco with the Germans in 1983, but she lived in Linton which I'm not even sure was on a bus route, and it all seemed so impossible at 15. But I've just Googled it. It was 12 miles, in an almost straight line from where I lived aged 15. I could have been there in an hour!
Bloody hell, people have relationships these days whilst living on opposite sides of the Atlantic. What was I thinking?
Even my most successful teenage relationship, with Joanne Phillips, could have benefitted from a winning combination of bike riding and map reading. I say successful. It worked out, in the sense that we did go out for a while, and I thought she was the one, but then she decided hanging around with me was interfering with her A Level studies, so she dumped my ass faster than you can say Cheese Single.
It was one of those dumpings that was mitigated by the old chestnut of 'Oh, we'll still be friends', but those words were accompanied by body language which roughly translated meant 'I hope you get shot into space, and don't come back'. I didn't get shot into space, but I did go to Germany for a while. She lived in Boston Spa, which again was an hour and three quarters away on two buses, but on another ride home from my mum's (this year) I rode from Garforth to Boston Spa in less than an hour. It's only 11 miles away. Once again, I thought, I could have saved ages timewise, if only I'd got a bike.
And the thing about all these girls is, I went or nearly went out with all of them in the summer, when it doesn't go dark until about 11 o'clock at night, and it would have actually been quite pleasant riding a bike in the evenings or on a weekend then.
Unfortunately I just didn't think in bicycles when I was aged 15 to 17. I was a teenager. I thought about buses, and I thought about getting lifts. And to be honest I didn't think about getting lifts much. I had a step dad who was either drunk or his car had fallen to pieces or the engine blown up, or he was in the police station getting done for drunk driving, so I mostly thought about buses.
You would think logically that travelling by bike is quite slow, but it has the advantage that you can go directly from A to B, and you don't have to stop for old people and women with buggies. And you don't have to do laps of every village on the bus route. Buses go all over the bloody place, and if you work out your average speed on some bus journeys it works out at about 5 miles an hour, which is barely above walking speed.
Hooray for bikes, and hooray for girls! Especially ones that are easy to get to.
The only bit that hasn't been working out is that some of the buses have these shiny new seats, and it's impossible to stay on them when the bus goes round corners. I mean, why make a seat out of shiny stuff? It makes no sense. There's no friction.
When buses don't work out, is when they don't join up places you want to go to. This hampered me a lot during the ages of 15 and 17 when I wanted to go out with girls.
It would have all been different if I'd gone to the local comprehensive, because girls would then have been walking distance away, but most of the ones I met were through school in Leeds, and they all lived miles away.
Looking back though, and considering the miniscule percentage of girls I liked that would actually go out with me, it seems incredible to me now that I was put off by the lack of a direct bus service, but I was.
It was only when I started riding my bike long distances in the last few years, that I realised how easy it could have been for me to get to girls' houses. Especially when I discovered with the aid of Google maps, that most of the ones I'd been put off going to see, lived within a 12 mile radius of my house. That's an hour on a bike!
It all started to come home to me how lazy I'd been last year when I rode home from my mum's in Leeds, via York (an 86 mile trip). Only 4 miles into this ride I found myself in Sherburn in Elmet, where Rachel Waterfield had lived 27 years before. 4 miles! I could have walked that, but in 1983 after meeting Rachel at a party, I managed to let things fizzle out badly during my follow-up phone call to her because of the lack of a direct bus service. Why didn't I just get on a bike, I could have been there in 20 minutes?
And Joanne McAndrew. She lived in Alwoodley which was 10 miles away from Garforth on the Leeds Ring Road, and there was a bus that went from about a mile away from my house to hers, but I couldn't be bothered to walk the mile. In her case I did once ride it, on the 5 speed racing bike that I had then and didn't like, but it was when I worked at Rawcliffes and having no fashion sense I had bought some terrible sweat gathering jogging outfit which I cycled there in. The fact that I was wearing that was probably reason enough for the relationship not to get off the ground, but again I felt the difficulty of the transport options was a factor. The ring road is quite a busy road, and there's a lot of roundabouts, and I just totally failed to persevere either with the cycling, or the walk to the bus stop, even though she was funny and attractive.
And Susannah Baynard. Admittedly I didn't help my case with her, by not dancing very well at the disco with the Germans in 1983, but she lived in Linton which I'm not even sure was on a bus route, and it all seemed so impossible at 15. But I've just Googled it. It was 12 miles, in an almost straight line from where I lived aged 15. I could have been there in an hour!
Bloody hell, people have relationships these days whilst living on opposite sides of the Atlantic. What was I thinking?
Even my most successful teenage relationship, with Joanne Phillips, could have benefitted from a winning combination of bike riding and map reading. I say successful. It worked out, in the sense that we did go out for a while, and I thought she was the one, but then she decided hanging around with me was interfering with her A Level studies, so she dumped my ass faster than you can say Cheese Single.
It was one of those dumpings that was mitigated by the old chestnut of 'Oh, we'll still be friends', but those words were accompanied by body language which roughly translated meant 'I hope you get shot into space, and don't come back'. I didn't get shot into space, but I did go to Germany for a while. She lived in Boston Spa, which again was an hour and three quarters away on two buses, but on another ride home from my mum's (this year) I rode from Garforth to Boston Spa in less than an hour. It's only 11 miles away. Once again, I thought, I could have saved ages timewise, if only I'd got a bike.
And the thing about all these girls is, I went or nearly went out with all of them in the summer, when it doesn't go dark until about 11 o'clock at night, and it would have actually been quite pleasant riding a bike in the evenings or on a weekend then.
Unfortunately I just didn't think in bicycles when I was aged 15 to 17. I was a teenager. I thought about buses, and I thought about getting lifts. And to be honest I didn't think about getting lifts much. I had a step dad who was either drunk or his car had fallen to pieces or the engine blown up, or he was in the police station getting done for drunk driving, so I mostly thought about buses.
You would think logically that travelling by bike is quite slow, but it has the advantage that you can go directly from A to B, and you don't have to stop for old people and women with buggies. And you don't have to do laps of every village on the bus route. Buses go all over the bloody place, and if you work out your average speed on some bus journeys it works out at about 5 miles an hour, which is barely above walking speed.
Hooray for bikes, and hooray for girls! Especially ones that are easy to get to.
Monday, 19 December 2011
Munich 1983 - Eating lemons and looking at boobies.
Going to Hannover in 1985 wasn't my first exchange trip to Germany. I went to Munich in 1983 when I was 15. Again it was the same story, they came over here for two weeks in April, and we went there for two weeks in July.
The English half of the exchange didn't exactly run smoothly. I had exchanged letters with my exchange partner Josephine, so I knew how tall she was, how many cats she had etc. This was supposed to help with the ice breaking disaster that is speaking to foreigners when you're 15.
So in April about 30 Germans came pouring through the ticket barriers at Leeds Station, and one by one we identified our exchange partners and went home. Eventually there was just one girl left, but it wasn't Josephine. It took about 30 minutes of hand gestures and pigeon German / English to discover that Josephine had decided to stay at home with the cats and instead they'd sent a sub. In my case it was Friederike Merdan (or Fri for short), a stripey trousered girl who not only was not Josephine, she didn't know any of the other Germans because she was in the school year above the rest of them, so taking her out in groups wasn't easy, as she didn't really have any particular desire to mix with people she didn't know.
I managed to pretty much get by a whole fortnight just by introducing her to people who commented on her stripey trousers, and that was pretty much the end of the conversation, and on to the next trouser admirer. I did my best with her, and so did my mum, but it was like pulling teeth out of a crocodile's head.
When I got to Munich I had the same problem in reverse in that she wasn't friends with any of the other German exchangers, so she didn't really want to meet up with them.
Eventually after about 3 days, I decided that I knew which U-bahns to take to get about, and so I would be fine going out by myself. And I went off to meet some friends to see Tootsie (Dustin Hoffmann dubbed over in German). I didn't have a bloody clue what was going on in the film. Dustin kept dressing up as a woman and hanging around with Jessica Lange and going on the swings and stuff. That was pretty much all I could figure out. About halfway through the film, Dustin's roommate (Bill Murray) is talking to him, and he appears to be eating lemons off a plate. Steve Hills leaned over to me, and he said 'That guy's eating lemons!'. For reasons still unknown to this day, this was the funniest thing I'd ever heard, and the rest of the film I couldn't stop laughing. Unfortunately I was laughing totally out of sync with the funny bits in the film, which the Germans were laughing at. They kept looking at me, as if I was noodle doodle. I was.
After the film, I went and got on all the right trams, but then when I got off at Schwabing station, I realised I didn't have a clue which direction to set off walking in. Never one to give up easily, and without the phone number of Fri's house, I walked round and round and round for 2-3 hours, asking for directions in appalling German. In the meantime, Fri had called the Police and they were out looking for an English boy in a stripey T-shirt.
After a process of eliminating every street in Munich one at a time, I found my way back to Fri's apartment. She opened the door, gave me quite a lot of abuse, and went off to bed. It was about 1.30 in the morning. I should have been back by 11. Her mum called off the police and I went to bed.
For the next 11 days I barely spoke to Fri, but having learned my way round Munich the hard way, I became happily self-reliant. Although we didn't speak much, I did regularly see her naked body go past me in the river in the English Garden. It wasn't officially a naturist resort, but every girl who wasn't English walked around topless, including Fri. There's a fast flowing river in the Garden, and we used to go in it all the time. You got carried downstream by the current, and then you had to grab onto a bridge and drag yourself to the bank to get out. Once or twice I lost my Speedos during the exit from the water. Unfortunately on one of these occasions I was seen by Helen Winn, and even more unfortunate was that in the cold water my penis had shrunk to the size of a peanut. Not a good way to impress the girls.
Unfortunately, on one of these river rides, Stephen Holliday hit his head on the concrete bottom of the river bed, underneath a bridge and he had to go off to hospital to get his nose fixed. I just had an e-mail conversation with him this week, though, so I'm pretty sure he's over it now, although he's not quite got over being buried in potted plants whilst out of his tree on Apfelkorn in Hannover, but that's another story.
There was a German man in the English Garden, who used to go round the park completely starkers, holding two badminton racquets and a shuttlecock, and shouting quite loudly 'Wer spielt Federball?'. I always tried to decline politely without making eye contact.
As well as dossing round the English Garden, we went on a coach trip to the Chitty Chitty Bang Bang Castle at Neuschwannstein, which was incredible. If only I had better pictures of it, most of the pictures I took were of Pamela Pirie and Emma Helliwell, although I don't know why I bothered. I should have got more scenery in, because both of them would rather have seen me shot into space than go out with me.
On the last night, I spotted Pamela snogging Darren Zimmermann in a doorway and I knew my chances had finally fizzled out to nothing. Darren was about 3 years older, and he could dance and cut his own hair. He knew I liked her, and he felt a bit bad that he swiped her out from under my nose, so he invited me out for breakfast in the English Garden the morning we went back to England, and he brought a picnic, and it was the most gentlemanly way for him to have handled being the better man, and I really liked him for that.
It was a fantastic two weeks. I got to travel round one of the greatest cities in the world, completely independently at 15 years of age. The weather was beautiful, and there were topless girls everywhere. I even managed to totally avoid playing badminton with a naked man.
At the end of the two weeks Fri gave me a lift back to the airport, and we parted on good terms. I think she forgave me for sparking a man hunt, and if the truth were told, I think she'd quite enjoyed not having to look after me much.
It wasn't the perfect holiday, but it wasn't far off.
The English half of the exchange didn't exactly run smoothly. I had exchanged letters with my exchange partner Josephine, so I knew how tall she was, how many cats she had etc. This was supposed to help with the ice breaking disaster that is speaking to foreigners when you're 15.
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| Oh No, they've sent the wrong German! |
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| Having fun on the way to Neuschwannstein - notice the bicycle bell balanced on top of a half eaten apple and a tennis ball |
When I got to Munich I had the same problem in reverse in that she wasn't friends with any of the other German exchangers, so she didn't really want to meet up with them.
Eventually after about 3 days, I decided that I knew which U-bahns to take to get about, and so I would be fine going out by myself. And I went off to meet some friends to see Tootsie (Dustin Hoffmann dubbed over in German). I didn't have a bloody clue what was going on in the film. Dustin kept dressing up as a woman and hanging around with Jessica Lange and going on the swings and stuff. That was pretty much all I could figure out. About halfway through the film, Dustin's roommate (Bill Murray) is talking to him, and he appears to be eating lemons off a plate. Steve Hills leaned over to me, and he said 'That guy's eating lemons!'. For reasons still unknown to this day, this was the funniest thing I'd ever heard, and the rest of the film I couldn't stop laughing. Unfortunately I was laughing totally out of sync with the funny bits in the film, which the Germans were laughing at. They kept looking at me, as if I was noodle doodle. I was.
After the film, I went and got on all the right trams, but then when I got off at Schwabing station, I realised I didn't have a clue which direction to set off walking in. Never one to give up easily, and without the phone number of Fri's house, I walked round and round and round for 2-3 hours, asking for directions in appalling German. In the meantime, Fri had called the Police and they were out looking for an English boy in a stripey T-shirt.
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| I went all the way to Neuschwannstein but all I got was pictures of girls |
For the next 11 days I barely spoke to Fri, but having learned my way round Munich the hard way, I became happily self-reliant. Although we didn't speak much, I did regularly see her naked body go past me in the river in the English Garden. It wasn't officially a naturist resort, but every girl who wasn't English walked around topless, including Fri. There's a fast flowing river in the Garden, and we used to go in it all the time. You got carried downstream by the current, and then you had to grab onto a bridge and drag yourself to the bank to get out. Once or twice I lost my Speedos during the exit from the water. Unfortunately on one of these occasions I was seen by Helen Winn, and even more unfortunate was that in the cold water my penis had shrunk to the size of a peanut. Not a good way to impress the girls.
 |
| Messing about in the English Garden - with all our clothes on |
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| Here we are on the way home. That's Steve on the left, with the broken nose |
As well as dossing round the English Garden, we went on a coach trip to the Chitty Chitty Bang Bang Castle at Neuschwannstein, which was incredible. If only I had better pictures of it, most of the pictures I took were of Pamela Pirie and Emma Helliwell, although I don't know why I bothered. I should have got more scenery in, because both of them would rather have seen me shot into space than go out with me.
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| Here's one with me in. Can't believe I was ever that thin! |
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| Gratuitous Picture of Pamela's legs - thankfully we can both laugh about it now |
At the end of the two weeks Fri gave me a lift back to the airport, and we parted on good terms. I think she forgave me for sparking a man hunt, and if the truth were told, I think she'd quite enjoyed not having to look after me much.
It wasn't the perfect holiday, but it wasn't far off.
Berlin 1985
When I was 17 I went to Berlin. That was in the days when West Berlin was completely surrounded by East Germany. We went on a coach from Hannover, during our school exchange trip..
At the border with East Germany a very serious looking man got on board and had a good look round the coach to make sure we weren't hiding anything.
The main difference once we left West Germany was that instead of seeing Audis, BMWs, and Mercedes on the Autobahn all we saw were Trabants, and about every third one of them was parked up on the hard shoulder, with an East German looking under the bonnet to see what was wrong with it.
I expected East Germany to be very grey, and I was quite surprised to see that it had grass and trees that were made of green, as I'd almost been expecting them to be grey too.
I remember seeing children waving and smiling at the coach from the side of the road, and thinking that they looked happy enough. They just looked like children anywhere. And when we got off at the services to go to the bathroom, the tarmac looked like tarmac you might see in the West, and it felt the same under our feet.
I sat next to Paul Edgar on the coach journey and at one point he managed to explode a can of Coke all over my passport, which made it all a bit sticky and it's still stained to this day. But I did get a stamp on it at the border, which is about the only stamp in it. Most countries in Europe don't seem to bother, they just wave you through, but in East Germany they had a good look at us on the way in and out.
Upon entering West Berlin it was back to Audis again. No more Trabants. Everything was brightly coloured and obviously very Western. They used to call West Berlin the Schaufenster (shop window) of Europe and it was hard to escape the conclusion that they were rubbing the Easterners noses in it a bit with all the bright colours and the consumer goods and the brand names and the windows full of stuff. 'This is what you're missing', they seemed to be saying, 'we've got different kinds of ketchup and everything'.
My schoolfriends and I had a few hours to spare in Berlin that day, and so of course we decided to go to McDonalds, which caused our teacher Mr Kino to despair of us. Something about coming to one of the world's great cities and choosing to spend time hanging out in a burger bar.
Then we saw the Wall. We went up on a viewing platform and had a look over at the Brandenburg Gate, and into the No Man's Land with the Russian guard and barbed wire which surrounded it. Near the viewing platform were some graves of people who'd died trying to cross over and a tat shop selling cheap souvenirs. I didn't buy one. The Wall was massive. About twice as high as us. Every so often an American jeep would go past, with troops in the back and a big gun. On the Eastern side were the watchtowers, looking imposing.
We went to Checkpoint Charlie and thought about going over to the East, but there was a minimum currency exchange of about 30 Marks to go over, and nothing to spend it on, so we decided not to go.
Then we went to the Reichstag and had a look over to the East. It was such a contrast to what you could see in the West. I'd heard that on the Eastern side you weren't allowed to live within a couple of miles of the Wall, so the buildings immediately on the other side of the wall looked derelict. A few broken windows and loose curtains blowing in the wind. In the distance, you could see the occasional tram but no people. The trams were a dirty red colour, everything else looked grey. More like the grey I'd expected when we were on the coach.
It would have seemed impossible at the time of our visit, but the Wall only lasted 4 more years, until glasnost, perestroika and Gorbachev. I met a lady on a train in 1987 who was from the East. She had just reached the age of 65 and was allowed to travel again to the West. She was going to see her sister in the West, for the first time in 22 years. She seemed very matter of fact about it, but to me, always having lived in a country where you can move around at will, it seemed extraordinary..
Berlin in 1985 was like coming face to face with history, and it wasn't like the history you learn at school, this was history happening right in front of your eyes. Everything from 1945 onwards had led up to what I saw right there.
I've been fascinated by Berlin ever since. I've read lots of books about it, both during and after the war. About the Berlin Blockade, and about the Wall, and the stories of people who it trapped and divided. It's probably the most strange and unnerving place I've ever been to, and I'm glad I got to see it with the Wall in place. I hope to go back sometime soon to see it all joined back up again.
If you liked this blogpost, you might also enjoy this one
The main difference once we left West Germany was that instead of seeing Audis, BMWs, and Mercedes on the Autobahn all we saw were Trabants, and about every third one of them was parked up on the hard shoulder, with an East German looking under the bonnet to see what was wrong with it.
I expected East Germany to be very grey, and I was quite surprised to see that it had grass and trees that were made of green, as I'd almost been expecting them to be grey too.
I remember seeing children waving and smiling at the coach from the side of the road, and thinking that they looked happy enough. They just looked like children anywhere. And when we got off at the services to go to the bathroom, the tarmac looked like tarmac you might see in the West, and it felt the same under our feet.
I sat next to Paul Edgar on the coach journey and at one point he managed to explode a can of Coke all over my passport, which made it all a bit sticky and it's still stained to this day. But I did get a stamp on it at the border, which is about the only stamp in it. Most countries in Europe don't seem to bother, they just wave you through, but in East Germany they had a good look at us on the way in and out.
Upon entering West Berlin it was back to Audis again. No more Trabants. Everything was brightly coloured and obviously very Western. They used to call West Berlin the Schaufenster (shop window) of Europe and it was hard to escape the conclusion that they were rubbing the Easterners noses in it a bit with all the bright colours and the consumer goods and the brand names and the windows full of stuff. 'This is what you're missing', they seemed to be saying, 'we've got different kinds of ketchup and everything'.
My schoolfriends and I had a few hours to spare in Berlin that day, and so of course we decided to go to McDonalds, which caused our teacher Mr Kino to despair of us. Something about coming to one of the world's great cities and choosing to spend time hanging out in a burger bar.
Then we saw the Wall. We went up on a viewing platform and had a look over at the Brandenburg Gate, and into the No Man's Land with the Russian guard and barbed wire which surrounded it. Near the viewing platform were some graves of people who'd died trying to cross over and a tat shop selling cheap souvenirs. I didn't buy one. The Wall was massive. About twice as high as us. Every so often an American jeep would go past, with troops in the back and a big gun. On the Eastern side were the watchtowers, looking imposing.
We went to Checkpoint Charlie and thought about going over to the East, but there was a minimum currency exchange of about 30 Marks to go over, and nothing to spend it on, so we decided not to go.
Then we went to the Reichstag and had a look over to the East. It was such a contrast to what you could see in the West. I'd heard that on the Eastern side you weren't allowed to live within a couple of miles of the Wall, so the buildings immediately on the other side of the wall looked derelict. A few broken windows and loose curtains blowing in the wind. In the distance, you could see the occasional tram but no people. The trams were a dirty red colour, everything else looked grey. More like the grey I'd expected when we were on the coach.
It would have seemed impossible at the time of our visit, but the Wall only lasted 4 more years, until glasnost, perestroika and Gorbachev. I met a lady on a train in 1987 who was from the East. She had just reached the age of 65 and was allowed to travel again to the West. She was going to see her sister in the West, for the first time in 22 years. She seemed very matter of fact about it, but to me, always having lived in a country where you can move around at will, it seemed extraordinary..
Berlin in 1985 was like coming face to face with history, and it wasn't like the history you learn at school, this was history happening right in front of your eyes. Everything from 1945 onwards had led up to what I saw right there.
I've been fascinated by Berlin ever since. I've read lots of books about it, both during and after the war. About the Berlin Blockade, and about the Wall, and the stories of people who it trapped and divided. It's probably the most strange and unnerving place I've ever been to, and I'm glad I got to see it with the Wall in place. I hope to go back sometime soon to see it all joined back up again.
If you liked this blogpost, you might also enjoy this one
Sunday, 18 December 2011
Germany 1985 - Boris Becker, Handel's birthday and Escape to Victory - the Rematch
My first German exchange trip was in 1983 to Munich. I got given the wrong German and then I got lost and had the German police looking for me, and then I spent two weeks photographing a girl who ended up with someone else, and I also laughed inappropriately at someone eating lemons in the cinema, but overall I still had a really great time, and so in 1985 when I got the chance to go on another German exchange, I of course said yes.
Again the format was the same. The Germans came over to England in the Spring, and we went back there in the summer. For some reason we were sent over to Germany on the cross channel ferry in July without a teacher to keep an eye on us, and if there's ever a situation that is bound to end in disaster, it's probably seven 17 year olds on a ferry for 4 hours with unlimited access to the duty free shop.
(The full story of having to drag my drunk school friends off the ferry can be found here)
The German leg of the trip was timed to coincide with the end of the school summer term, so we got to spend some time going to lessons in the Herschelschule in Hannover as well as hanging around in Germany being teenagers. The best thing about school in Germany is a thing called Hitzefrei. If it's too hot, you don't have to go to school, and they let you go about 11 in the morning. We had Hitzefrei almost every day while we were there.
The whole trip was amazing, although I wish I'd been kinder to my exchange partner Sebastian. In my defence I was 17 then, and in many ways an idiot. I was particularly rude to him regarding his taste in music, which I was unnecessarily scathing about (Judas Priest I think). And that was coming from someone who was into Def Leppard and ELO, so I should have kept my mouth shut. But the first few days were the best of all.
The first Sunday I was there was the Men's Wimbledon Singles Final (from Wimbledon) and against the odds the unseeded German Boris Becker was in the final. This was in the days when the Germans were normally about as competitive as the Brits at Wimbledon. I sat and watched the final with the entire Barth family and almost unbelievably the 17 year old Boris won. It was extra special watching it in Germany, but it was also the first time I'd seen someone my age or younger win something big in sport. These days there's only archeryists and crown green bowlers who are older than me in sport.
The evening following the final we were off to something called the Handelfest. It was a massive celebration to mark the 300th Anniversary of the birth of Handel (you know the Messiah guy). There was lots of music of his played and an enormous firework display and it was incredible, but almost as incredible was that every conversation that I overheard wasn't about Handel, it was about Boris Becker. There were elderly Germans everywhere just unable to contain their excitement at what they'd seen. And it was great to be there.
The other day of that trip I remember the best is the day we played football against the German army in the park. It was so not Escape to Victory you wouldn't believe. I'm not sure what the German army were doing in the park. We were there on borrowed bicycles having a picnic and enjoying the evening summer sun.
Somehow we got talking to them and they challenged us to a football match, but they were so gentlemanly they agreed to play in bare feet, so as not to kick our shins to pieces with their army boots. They also shared a crate of beer with us, which they had brought along. I think even with the bare feet they probably won, but the result didn't really matter.
I have no idea why I felt like this, but I can remember reclining on the grass, after the barefoot football match, probably a bit drunk on beer (but not a horrible kind of drunk, just that kind of drunk where you love everybody) and I remember looking up at the sky and enjoying the warmth of the summer evening, and feeling happy enough to die. I know that sounds bizarre. Don't get me wrong. I didn't want to die. I just felt like it would be a good time to go. I didn't see how it was possible to feel any more content than I did in that moment, and I thought it would be a good time to slip away. Being pleasantly tipsy in a park, in a summer evening, having run around a bit playing football. I didn't see how it could get any better.
Despite the perfect-ness of the opportunity I didn't die on my back in a park in Hannover in 1985, although I might well have done a couple of hours later. Instead of popping off, I jumped back on my borrowed bicycle and my friends and I rode erratically around the streets and cycle paths of Hannover back to our host families. We did some absolutely crazy cycling manoeuvres and were lucky not to arrested for being drunk in charge of bikes, but luckily there weren't any police or cars around, so we didn't get either arrested or run over.
The rest of the trip was fantastic too. Going to school with lots of guys in denim who looked like Jim out of Taxi and lots of tall girls in three quarter length trousers (including Heike Sander, who I briefly fell in love with but only from afar, I managed to take her picture once, that was all). Catching the underground from terminus to terminus on the spotless German underground system in hour after hour of pointless 'Bahnwanderungs'. Having a dancing competition for hours in the local disco with Andy Ramsden. And that isn't even mentioning the most incredible part of the trip, which was the day trip to Berlin, to see the Wall. I'll have to write about that another time. It was possibly the most unreal experience I've ever had.
(I did eventually go back and write about Berlin and the blog post for that can be found here)
Going to Berlin proved to be a very good reason for not dying the week before in the park, as have countless experiences since, but I hope when I do pop off, it's in as nice a place as that, surrounded by friends and after having had so much fun.
Again the format was the same. The Germans came over to England in the Spring, and we went back there in the summer. For some reason we were sent over to Germany on the cross channel ferry in July without a teacher to keep an eye on us, and if there's ever a situation that is bound to end in disaster, it's probably seven 17 year olds on a ferry for 4 hours with unlimited access to the duty free shop.
(The full story of having to drag my drunk school friends off the ferry can be found here)
The German leg of the trip was timed to coincide with the end of the school summer term, so we got to spend some time going to lessons in the Herschelschule in Hannover as well as hanging around in Germany being teenagers. The best thing about school in Germany is a thing called Hitzefrei. If it's too hot, you don't have to go to school, and they let you go about 11 in the morning. We had Hitzefrei almost every day while we were there.
The whole trip was amazing, although I wish I'd been kinder to my exchange partner Sebastian. In my defence I was 17 then, and in many ways an idiot. I was particularly rude to him regarding his taste in music, which I was unnecessarily scathing about (Judas Priest I think). And that was coming from someone who was into Def Leppard and ELO, so I should have kept my mouth shut. But the first few days were the best of all.
The first Sunday I was there was the Men's Wimbledon Singles Final (from Wimbledon) and against the odds the unseeded German Boris Becker was in the final. This was in the days when the Germans were normally about as competitive as the Brits at Wimbledon. I sat and watched the final with the entire Barth family and almost unbelievably the 17 year old Boris won. It was extra special watching it in Germany, but it was also the first time I'd seen someone my age or younger win something big in sport. These days there's only archeryists and crown green bowlers who are older than me in sport.
The evening following the final we were off to something called the Handelfest. It was a massive celebration to mark the 300th Anniversary of the birth of Handel (you know the Messiah guy). There was lots of music of his played and an enormous firework display and it was incredible, but almost as incredible was that every conversation that I overheard wasn't about Handel, it was about Boris Becker. There were elderly Germans everywhere just unable to contain their excitement at what they'd seen. And it was great to be there.
The other day of that trip I remember the best is the day we played football against the German army in the park. It was so not Escape to Victory you wouldn't believe. I'm not sure what the German army were doing in the park. We were there on borrowed bicycles having a picnic and enjoying the evening summer sun.
Somehow we got talking to them and they challenged us to a football match, but they were so gentlemanly they agreed to play in bare feet, so as not to kick our shins to pieces with their army boots. They also shared a crate of beer with us, which they had brought along. I think even with the bare feet they probably won, but the result didn't really matter.
I have no idea why I felt like this, but I can remember reclining on the grass, after the barefoot football match, probably a bit drunk on beer (but not a horrible kind of drunk, just that kind of drunk where you love everybody) and I remember looking up at the sky and enjoying the warmth of the summer evening, and feeling happy enough to die. I know that sounds bizarre. Don't get me wrong. I didn't want to die. I just felt like it would be a good time to go. I didn't see how it was possible to feel any more content than I did in that moment, and I thought it would be a good time to slip away. Being pleasantly tipsy in a park, in a summer evening, having run around a bit playing football. I didn't see how it could get any better.
Despite the perfect-ness of the opportunity I didn't die on my back in a park in Hannover in 1985, although I might well have done a couple of hours later. Instead of popping off, I jumped back on my borrowed bicycle and my friends and I rode erratically around the streets and cycle paths of Hannover back to our host families. We did some absolutely crazy cycling manoeuvres and were lucky not to arrested for being drunk in charge of bikes, but luckily there weren't any police or cars around, so we didn't get either arrested or run over.
The rest of the trip was fantastic too. Going to school with lots of guys in denim who looked like Jim out of Taxi and lots of tall girls in three quarter length trousers (including Heike Sander, who I briefly fell in love with but only from afar, I managed to take her picture once, that was all). Catching the underground from terminus to terminus on the spotless German underground system in hour after hour of pointless 'Bahnwanderungs'. Having a dancing competition for hours in the local disco with Andy Ramsden. And that isn't even mentioning the most incredible part of the trip, which was the day trip to Berlin, to see the Wall. I'll have to write about that another time. It was possibly the most unreal experience I've ever had.
(I did eventually go back and write about Berlin and the blog post for that can be found here)
Going to Berlin proved to be a very good reason for not dying the week before in the park, as have countless experiences since, but I hope when I do pop off, it's in as nice a place as that, surrounded by friends and after having had so much fun.
This is not a test
Ok, so my grammar is terrible.
And I start lots of sentences with and.
And I start new paragraphs where I shouldn't, and I don't start them where I should.
And I like to boldly go where lots of people have gone before, ie into the world of the split infinitive.
And I like to use aswell all as one word, whereas my teacher said it should be two.
And I don't really understand how to use colons and semi-colons.
And I like to make words up, like maroons to identify some people who've been marooned somewhere.
And I'm always saying things like who've instead of who have, because I write more like I talk, rather than writing like I write.
But I don't care. I'm not trying to pass an exam. I'm trying to say things that I want to say. I might infuriate the likes of Lynne Truss, but it's my party, and I can leave the cake out in the rain if I want to.
New words are getting accepted into the dictionary all the time. If prairie-dogging and blamestorming and bling and chav and well phat and lol and lmao are good enough for the Oxford English Dictionary, then I will continue to massacre the English language. Yes, in the name of blog, I will.
And I start lots of sentences with and.
And I start new paragraphs where I shouldn't, and I don't start them where I should.
And I like to boldly go where lots of people have gone before, ie into the world of the split infinitive.
And I like to use aswell all as one word, whereas my teacher said it should be two.
And I don't really understand how to use colons and semi-colons.
And I like to make words up, like maroons to identify some people who've been marooned somewhere.
And I'm always saying things like who've instead of who have, because I write more like I talk, rather than writing like I write.
But I don't care. I'm not trying to pass an exam. I'm trying to say things that I want to say. I might infuriate the likes of Lynne Truss, but it's my party, and I can leave the cake out in the rain if I want to.
New words are getting accepted into the dictionary all the time. If prairie-dogging and blamestorming and bling and chav and well phat and lol and lmao are good enough for the Oxford English Dictionary, then I will continue to massacre the English language. Yes, in the name of blog, I will.
Wednesday, 14 December 2011
My wedding and other disaster movies
I've been married to Ruth now for over 12 years, which is quite an achievement considering what a disaster the first 12 days were.
We got married on a Sunday, 18th July 1999, during the 10 am Sunday Service at St Francis, and then we were due to go straight down to Somerset for 12 days in a cottage.
We had barely finished clearing up the wrapping paper from our wedding presents when we were diverted from our intended plans by Ruth having to take Becky to A&E for an X-ray on a shoulder that she landed on after flying off the garden swing.
Instead of the planned drive south, we then spent our first evening as a married couple watching Star Wars 1, the Phantom Menace at the Showcase. So that was two things gone wrong already.
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| Hot Fuzz woz ere |
We went to Somerset on the Monday instead, and by the Tuesday I was suffering from crippling stomach pains. I couldn't sleep at night, or go to the toilet properly.
By Day 4 of married life, I was confined to bed and the kids were trying to get Ruth to take them home, and leave me there on my own.
Ruth tried to persuade me to go with them, but I was all for sticking it out. It might get better, I said.
Ruth tried to persuade me to go with them, but I was all for sticking it out. It might get better, I said.
By Day 8 I'd been seen by an emergency doctor, who diagnosed me as having irritable bowel syndrome, which could have been brought on by a combination of pre-wedding stress and eating about 50 pieces of chicken at the party the night before the wedding.
Days 9 to 11 were a bit of an improvement and were spent in and around Longleat, feeding goats, looking out the car window at lions and tigers and having monkeys rip bits off and wee on our car.
Around 5 pm on Day 12, probably lulled into a false sense of security by having 3 reasonable days in a row, I drove off a kerb during the leaving of Longleat, and I managed to remove the entire exhaust from the already peed on car. Instead of being attached to the underside of the car, the exhaust was now parked next to it on the grass. I sat next to both of them, feeling sorry for myself, while Ruth took the kids off to phone for a recovery vehicle. This was in the days before mobile phones, so she probably had to knock Lord Longleat up to use his phone, I'm not sure.
Luckily Ruth's brother lived in Wells then, so we managed to crash on his floor for the 5 days it took to get the car back from the garage. We did have to call off Michael's quad biking birthday party though, because we couldn't get home for it, something he still reminds me of till this day. Instead of him riding a quad bike, he spent his 9th birthday hanging around the Fleet Air Arm museum, looking bored.
When we did eventually get home, after 17 days away, we discovered that the thermostat in our fridge had died during our absence, and we had to set about disposing of the fridge full of penicillin which we'd managed to grow while we'd been gone.
A few years ago, we were at the cinema watching Hot Fuzz and partway through the film it dawned on us that it had been filmed in Wells. No wonder so much of it seemed familiar to us.
Towards the end of the film, the market square is the scene of a set piece battle between the police and the elderly gun-toting Neighbourhood Watch, and you get to see, in graphic detail, the town centre of our former honeymoon destination being shot to pieces.
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| CSI Wells - getting over our honeymoon |
We went back to Wells in 2010 and rode around it on our bikes a bit, and stayed in a nice cottage, and got our photographs taken outside the pub used in the film, and we bought some fizzy pop and chocolate from Somerfield, and that along with watching Hot Fuzz about 20 times since, has helped to ease the pain....
Thank you ferry much - A cautionary tale about drinking
For someone who got into quite a few drink related scrapes when I was younger, I've always been pretty self-righteous about other people's drinking.
Whether this has anything to do with having a drunk for a step dad, who used to pass out in the living room before 6 pm every evening, and who used to spend two or three hours a night shouting out in his sleep I don't know.
This atitude did lead me to almost leaving two unconscious friends on a ferry in a Belgium once, but thankfully some of the other people on the trip were better friends to them that I was, and got them off the ferry onto a bus.
It seems strange now, in these days when teachers are often too scared to take children on school trips at all, that the seven of us (Me, another Jonathan, John, Andy, Paul E, Paul H and Stephen) were sent off to Germany without a teacher at all. I think it was assumed, wrongly as it turned out, that we were all pretty sensible lads.
Five of us were pretty sensible, but the other two managed to sink a whole bottle of Southern Comfort between them on the four hour ferry crossing from Dover to Zeebrugge (John and the other Jonathan)
I'll never forget finding John face down on the deck of a ferry in the early hours of the morning. He had a mustardy yellow jacket which he was very proud of, and when I opened the door onto the deck I found him face down, not only with a yellow jacket but with a stream of yellowy vomit coming out from his mouth to one side. The only way I can describe it is that it looked to me like his head was an egg that had been smashed against the floor and there was a trail of yolk issuing out from his head.
When we got into Zeebrugge at 5 in the morning, with the 2 of them still out for the count, the other 5 of us took a vote about what to do with them. Leave them on the ferry, was my decision. I think Paul H might have agreed with me aswell, but there were more votes in favour of dragging them off the boat, than there were for leaving them on it. Hooray for democracy.
I bumped into Andy about a year ago, and we talked about our decision making process. He said he would have left John but he and Jonathan had been friends for years, and he couldn't in all good conscience leave him there.
It was lucky for the two of them, that there were better friends than me there, or they might still be there.
A couple of years after this incident I found myself in a similar state of drink related incapacity. It was my first Christmas at TSB. I was 20. We had a drinks party after hours at work before heading off to the pub. Partly due to my own naivety, but also largely thanks to the stupidity of some of my older colleagues, I became the unwitting victim of some drinking games, which involved drinking paper cups full of mixed spirits. I don't remember much about it, except I probably broke the world record for the shortest time elapsed between a pub opening its doors and one of its customer's being ejected for drunken-ness. I almost got thrown out on the way in. Being sick on my new boss wasn't the ideal way to kick start a career in banking either.
My lovely new colleagues, having had a good laugh at my expense, then left me propped up outside the pub and went back in to enjoy their evening. Thanks guys! Somehow my homing beacon still worked, and I managed to get on a bus and get home, although I scared my mum half to death when I got in. She thought I'd been run over, and I was then sick some more, narrowly avoiding being sick on the cat's head.
Not only have I never had much tolerance for drunken-ness, I haven't got much tolerance for alcohol either. Now I mostly avoid it, especially since the hospital put me on some drugs which most definitely don't mix with it, and which could kill my liver all by themselves.
It seems strange to me, that we are so alarmed by other forms of drug taking, yet we think getting smashed out of our skulls on drink is in some way just a great big laugh.
I've never found it very funny.
Whether this has anything to do with having a drunk for a step dad, who used to pass out in the living room before 6 pm every evening, and who used to spend two or three hours a night shouting out in his sleep I don't know.
This atitude did lead me to almost leaving two unconscious friends on a ferry in a Belgium once, but thankfully some of the other people on the trip were better friends to them that I was, and got them off the ferry onto a bus.
It seems strange now, in these days when teachers are often too scared to take children on school trips at all, that the seven of us (Me, another Jonathan, John, Andy, Paul E, Paul H and Stephen) were sent off to Germany without a teacher at all. I think it was assumed, wrongly as it turned out, that we were all pretty sensible lads.
Five of us were pretty sensible, but the other two managed to sink a whole bottle of Southern Comfort between them on the four hour ferry crossing from Dover to Zeebrugge (John and the other Jonathan)
I'll never forget finding John face down on the deck of a ferry in the early hours of the morning. He had a mustardy yellow jacket which he was very proud of, and when I opened the door onto the deck I found him face down, not only with a yellow jacket but with a stream of yellowy vomit coming out from his mouth to one side. The only way I can describe it is that it looked to me like his head was an egg that had been smashed against the floor and there was a trail of yolk issuing out from his head.
When we got into Zeebrugge at 5 in the morning, with the 2 of them still out for the count, the other 5 of us took a vote about what to do with them. Leave them on the ferry, was my decision. I think Paul H might have agreed with me aswell, but there were more votes in favour of dragging them off the boat, than there were for leaving them on it. Hooray for democracy.
I bumped into Andy about a year ago, and we talked about our decision making process. He said he would have left John but he and Jonathan had been friends for years, and he couldn't in all good conscience leave him there.
It was lucky for the two of them, that there were better friends than me there, or they might still be there.
A couple of years after this incident I found myself in a similar state of drink related incapacity. It was my first Christmas at TSB. I was 20. We had a drinks party after hours at work before heading off to the pub. Partly due to my own naivety, but also largely thanks to the stupidity of some of my older colleagues, I became the unwitting victim of some drinking games, which involved drinking paper cups full of mixed spirits. I don't remember much about it, except I probably broke the world record for the shortest time elapsed between a pub opening its doors and one of its customer's being ejected for drunken-ness. I almost got thrown out on the way in. Being sick on my new boss wasn't the ideal way to kick start a career in banking either.
My lovely new colleagues, having had a good laugh at my expense, then left me propped up outside the pub and went back in to enjoy their evening. Thanks guys! Somehow my homing beacon still worked, and I managed to get on a bus and get home, although I scared my mum half to death when I got in. She thought I'd been run over, and I was then sick some more, narrowly avoiding being sick on the cat's head.
Not only have I never had much tolerance for drunken-ness, I haven't got much tolerance for alcohol either. Now I mostly avoid it, especially since the hospital put me on some drugs which most definitely don't mix with it, and which could kill my liver all by themselves.
It seems strange to me, that we are so alarmed by other forms of drug taking, yet we think getting smashed out of our skulls on drink is in some way just a great big laugh.
I've never found it very funny.
Tuesday, 13 December 2011
Then we came to the end, but not quite.
I'm getting fired from my job at Waterstone's in 3 weeks. It's not the first time this has happened.
Before I got fired by Waterstone's the first time, I used to review books for their website.
And I once won £100 in book vouchers for writing a review for head office about reading Murakami in Mevagissey, which is harder to say than it is to type.
They may have deleted me, and turned the branch where I worked into a Poundland, but my reviews are still there, which is somehow comforting.
It's strange reading things I wrote a few years ago, because not only do I not remember writing some of the reviews, I don't remember reading some of the books.
Of course I still remember clearly Timequake, Brilliant Orange, Football against the Enemy, the Life of Pi, The Cruellest Miles, Seabiscuit, Stasiland and the Wall. They're not just books, they're unforgettable, life-changing events.
One of the last books I read before I got fired, was called Then We Came to the End, by Joshua Ferris. It's a book about getting fired, and not long after I read it I got fired. Luckily, I am able to separate fiction from fact, so I resisted the urge to go back to my old workplace dressed as a clown and blow away my colleagues. It wouldn't have worked in my case anyway, as I'd have only ended up making a mess of some strangers in Poundland, since the last day for me, was the last day for the shop too.
Sometimes when I look back, particularly at the good ones, I think, in the words of Kurt Vonnegut 'How the hell did I do that?'
I don't read much these days, mostly because my eyes are now full of super glue, but I used to do it a lot, especially in the days when there were only 3 channels on the TV.
Life was simpler then. I used to alternate between watching TV, playing football, playing with toys and going to the Library. I can't remember owning any books in those days, but I was in the Library every week. I went back in recently. It's had a refurb and an extension and it's even got a coffee shop now. They let me use the internet there when my mum was ill. I tried to talk to the woman on the counter about the olden days, when all of this were fields blah, blah, blah, but she didn't seem as interested in my monologue as I was.....
I don't read much these days, mostly because my eyes are now full of super glue, but I used to do it a lot, especially in the days when there were only 3 channels on the TV.
Life was simpler then. I used to alternate between watching TV, playing football, playing with toys and going to the Library. I can't remember owning any books in those days, but I was in the Library every week. I went back in recently. It's had a refurb and an extension and it's even got a coffee shop now. They let me use the internet there when my mum was ill. I tried to talk to the woman on the counter about the olden days, when all of this were fields blah, blah, blah, but she didn't seem as interested in my monologue as I was.....
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