The advert was cryptic, which should have been a warning: "Vacancy. Foppish positive thinker with a will-ring-bell attitude. Good time-keeping essential...."
I was intrigued and more importantly, skint, so I shined my shoes and made sure I was 5 minutes early for the interview. This seemed to piss them off but no-one else applied, so I was officially named Town Crier (maternity leave cover) for Hoveton & Wroxham, Norfolk. Oh, yez.
What it didn't say in the advert was that I then had to buy my own uniform - luckily there is a fancy-dress place in Wroxham so the coat and hat were easy. The bell had to be hired (flat rate or so much per "dong") and the shoes were handed down from the previous maternity leave coverer, complete with three-inch heels. Shouting tax was to be deducted from gross wages. The induction course involved a sundial, a divining rod, the sacrifice of a live chicken and amphetamine sulphate. I was fast-tracked through all this with worrying haste and shooed onto the streets within 34 minutes and 21 seconds or thereabouts. Luckily I had a watch. Luckily I had a mobile phone to keep up with current affairs. Luckily nothing much goes on in Hoveton & Wroxham when out of holiday season.
My boss knew I was desperate for cash and needed this. He put me on the graveyard shift, then the vicar complained so I was given the dreaded '24/7'. Oh yez, the '24/7' - you can't work more hours than that, think about it - "..twenty three thirty seven and all's well..." using my little night-time bell so as not to wake anyone. And the wages were not that hot, not for the abuse from the kids, "Oi, you're on the end of a bell, that makes you a campanologist. Oh, bollocks I meant 'bell-end', come back here and let me insult you properly..." Relentless. To earn extra I started to freelance, giving out bits of local gossip at 10:30 when the old biddies left the post office, or promoting Mrs. McFiggis's newsagent: "..alls well and 20p off a packet of sherbert lemons with every fifth purchase of 'Ladder Awareness Monthly'..."etc. It was tiring but I was happy - Wroxham F.C. were thriving in the Green Dodecahedron League and the mood of the population was cheery with only a wistful remembrance of rationing and powdered egg to worry about.
Sadly the hours of duty started to catch up. One day, a Wednesday I think it was, about 2 minutes past the hour of 4; I realised I wasn't getting much sleep. Or food. Like Flavor Flav, I always knew what time it was, but I wasn't getting 'mine'. Things came to a head when the clocks went back that October. I had to walk backwards for a whole hour, then they told me I'd be docked an hours wages for the hour that I'd just walked backwards during. They tried to calm me down with talk of repeat fees for the 1 a.m. broadcast, but I knew the time had come for not only the repeat of the 1 a.m. broadcast; but for me to make a stand (albeit a walking one, ringing a bell as I went). "...eight thirty nine and all's sweet as..." slipped one of those in an hour "...five sixty one and all's well..." that'll fox 'em "....five seven oh five, and there's no reply...." "... all the nines, ten past four..." and so it went on. No-one noticed. Seems Hoveton & Wroxham was blasé about the new maternity cover Town Crier, so much so that I blended into the background like the roadworks outside the Garden Centre or the fella in top hat & tails collecting litter.
Then I heard that Aylsham's Crier had a mere two-cornered hat, honked a clowns horn and had more groupies than you can wave a bell at....
There is no sadder sight or sound in the world than a Town Crier who has lost the will to crie. I hate myself to think of what I had become in those final days. I wore a balaclava outside the Salvation Army. Dungarees. A prom dress. "Suck On My Attitude" t-shirt. Pogo stick. Stilts. Dalek voice. Kenneth Williams. And finally, sarcasm, "Oh, yeah, no really, oh, yeah, its three thirty and everything is absolutely marvelous, really it is, no, couldn't be better, whoop-de-doo...."
Wednesday, 28 September 2011
Sunday, 25 September 2011
There Was An Old Lady Who Swallowed A Worm
Molly is thirteen when she swallows a fly; perhaps she'll eventually die. The scientific evidence is overwhelming - pointing to 'she will'. For now, her only problem is a fly; and how to get rid of it. She asks her best friend and next-door neighbour Dolly, who lives in a shoe. Dolly hasn't done biology yet but has witnessed a spider feeding; so she suggests: "swallow that", as opposed to: "hang around - they don't live very long". Things go well, the buzzing stops, followed by a tickling and a wriggling...
The next chapter in our story covers a far greater period of time, the spider may well have died, but Molly has got the taste for this lark now. If a bird is going to get down Molly's throat, it would have to be a wren - they are notoriously small and nest anywhere - but how to lure it alive towards a spidery supper? Worms, and lots of 'em. She must have gulletted 300 of the bastards before brer wren flew in. Brave, cute, fluttery little wren, pecking and shitting and too stupid just to stick around outside living off free worms... did I cover fluttering?
I'll spare you the details of the cat - horrible business.
Where are the R.S.P.C.A. while all this is going on? Rolf Harris? Bill Oddie? Postman Pat? Cher? We have to lay some of the blame for these atrocities at the foot of Dolly. Her parents have passed away, leaving her sole beneficiary in their will *ahem* sole bene..oh, nevermind... and this loss has obviously taken its toll. At no time (once the badger is swallowed, for instance) does she sit her friend down, cuff her hard about the lughole, and suggest bingo as an option.
We now have two old ladies, both 76, sitting on deck chairs in Molly's garden contemplating 'Dobbin'. It's a good job they didn't try to cook the old nag because he would have been as tough as Dolly's old house. No thought of drawing a diagram to show the relative sizes of the two life-forms involved, nay to that; or any worries about digestion and (lets not be squeamish) doing number two's. Ever tried swallowing a hoof? Multiply that by four and keep going...further......up a bit...... forget the number you first thought of....double it again...
Of course she died. We all do.
There was another old lady who swallowed a shoe, perhaps she'll pooh.
The next chapter in our story covers a far greater period of time, the spider may well have died, but Molly has got the taste for this lark now. If a bird is going to get down Molly's throat, it would have to be a wren - they are notoriously small and nest anywhere - but how to lure it alive towards a spidery supper? Worms, and lots of 'em. She must have gulletted 300 of the bastards before brer wren flew in. Brave, cute, fluttery little wren, pecking and shitting and too stupid just to stick around outside living off free worms... did I cover fluttering?
I'll spare you the details of the cat - horrible business.
Where are the R.S.P.C.A. while all this is going on? Rolf Harris? Bill Oddie? Postman Pat? Cher? We have to lay some of the blame for these atrocities at the foot of Dolly. Her parents have passed away, leaving her sole beneficiary in their will *ahem* sole bene..oh, nevermind... and this loss has obviously taken its toll. At no time (once the badger is swallowed, for instance) does she sit her friend down, cuff her hard about the lughole, and suggest bingo as an option.
We now have two old ladies, both 76, sitting on deck chairs in Molly's garden contemplating 'Dobbin'. It's a good job they didn't try to cook the old nag because he would have been as tough as Dolly's old house. No thought of drawing a diagram to show the relative sizes of the two life-forms involved, nay to that; or any worries about digestion and (lets not be squeamish) doing number two's. Ever tried swallowing a hoof? Multiply that by four and keep going...further......up a bit...... forget the number you first thought of....double it again...
Of course she died. We all do.
There was another old lady who swallowed a shoe, perhaps she'll pooh.
Friday, 23 September 2011
Thimbles (just thimbles)
Say "thimbles" and what do you think of? Chris Eubank trying to say "cymbals"? The Forth Road Bridge? Well, probably not the latter, but you are now aren't you? If The Forth Road Bridge were made of thimbles it would be no use as a bridge; or as a sewing aid - and that is the point: They matter. Would it be fanciful to imagine our primitive forefathers inventing a simple finger protector before embarking on all that skin-shredding wheel construction? It would - but our story begins soon after this great leap forward. The menfolk were able to handle rough stone without bleeding all over their mammoth-skin aprons because of the guitar.
The guitar has been around since Dinosaur Senior, and as soon as the monsters of rock discovered steel strings; they discovered blisters too. The solution was the first primitive thimble, or 'plectrum' as it was known at the time. A laughable device, it needed two (count 'em) two fingers to hold; but served hairy-handed axe wielders well for thousands of years. It is here that the clubbed-and-dragged-back-to-the-cave half of the population get involved. Someone had to sew those tour patches on. Someone had to darn those socks. "Darn those socks!" Tough on delicate, feminine badger-strangling fingers; tough on the causes of delicate, feminine badger-strangling fingers: two 'plectrums' sewn together - the 'Thimble' was born.
But you knew that already. What of the thimble now? What place has this ancient device got in this digital age.....hm?....digit*aw, nevermind* ...as I was saying, digital age? The Tailors of Saville Row swear by them: "Look at those fucking thimbles on the sideboard!", they can often be heard saying. Nutjobs, The Tailors; steer clear. And there are the millions of 'Thimble Houses' decorating the nest tables and knick-knack cupboards of the old and confused. Thimble makers themselves have to make themselves thimbles themselves for themselves to make themselves thimbles. And then you have masturbation. You may have a thimble-sized model of The Forth Road Bridge. You may have a Forth Road Bridge-sized thimble. But there is no getting away from the masturbation. The simple fact is that if you are wearing ten thimbles (leather, metal, snakeskin, METAL!?), it feels like someone else is doing it. The fetish thimble market is a writhing and thriving one.
So, we've established that thimbles are useful, cheep to run and attractive (if you like that sort of thing, or that sort of thing). But wait; our story is not complete - there is a disturbing twist to our tale..... what happens at night? Ever left off the lid off the sewing tin off? Three 'offs' don't make an 'on' you know? Out there, in the middle of the living room or pantry? Where the mice can get at it? You idiots? "But Ed," I *hear* you ask, "what possible use can a mouse have for a thimble?". Good question. 'Rodent Skiffle' is the answer. Remember Deryck Guyler (erstwhile 'Corky' in 'Sykes' and washboard player)? Well, our goofy little friends are innovative free-form musicians while we hibernate and that's not all they get up to either. Give a mouse a slab of cheese and he'll nibble it - give a mouse a slab of cheese and a metal thimble and he's got something to grate his cheese with.
Deryck Guyler also had a washboard stomach; but that is another story for another day.
The guitar has been around since Dinosaur Senior, and as soon as the monsters of rock discovered steel strings; they discovered blisters too. The solution was the first primitive thimble, or 'plectrum' as it was known at the time. A laughable device, it needed two (count 'em) two fingers to hold; but served hairy-handed axe wielders well for thousands of years. It is here that the clubbed-and-dragged-back-to-the-cave half of the population get involved. Someone had to sew those tour patches on. Someone had to darn those socks. "Darn those socks!" Tough on delicate, feminine badger-strangling fingers; tough on the causes of delicate, feminine badger-strangling fingers: two 'plectrums' sewn together - the 'Thimble' was born.
But you knew that already. What of the thimble now? What place has this ancient device got in this digital age.....hm?....digit*aw, nevermind* ...as I was saying, digital age? The Tailors of Saville Row swear by them: "Look at those fucking thimbles on the sideboard!", they can often be heard saying. Nutjobs, The Tailors; steer clear. And there are the millions of 'Thimble Houses' decorating the nest tables and knick-knack cupboards of the old and confused. Thimble makers themselves have to make themselves thimbles themselves for themselves to make themselves thimbles. And then you have masturbation. You may have a thimble-sized model of The Forth Road Bridge. You may have a Forth Road Bridge-sized thimble. But there is no getting away from the masturbation. The simple fact is that if you are wearing ten thimbles (leather, metal, snakeskin, METAL!?), it feels like someone else is doing it. The fetish thimble market is a writhing and thriving one.
So, we've established that thimbles are useful, cheep to run and attractive (if you like that sort of thing, or that sort of thing). But wait; our story is not complete - there is a disturbing twist to our tale..... what happens at night? Ever left off the lid off the sewing tin off? Three 'offs' don't make an 'on' you know? Out there, in the middle of the living room or pantry? Where the mice can get at it? You idiots? "But Ed," I *hear* you ask, "what possible use can a mouse have for a thimble?". Good question. 'Rodent Skiffle' is the answer. Remember Deryck Guyler (erstwhile 'Corky' in 'Sykes' and washboard player)? Well, our goofy little friends are innovative free-form musicians while we hibernate and that's not all they get up to either. Give a mouse a slab of cheese and he'll nibble it - give a mouse a slab of cheese and a metal thimble and he's got something to grate his cheese with.
Deryck Guyler also had a washboard stomach; but that is another story for another day.
 |
| A thimble, yesterday. |
Thimbles (just thimbles)
Thimbles. Say "thimbles" and what do you think of? Chris Eubank trying to say "cymbals"? The Forth Road Bridge? Well, probably not the latter, but you are now aren't you? If The Forth Road Bridge were made of thimbles it would be no use as a bridge; or as a sewing aid - and that is the point: They matter.
Would it be fanciful to imagine our primitive forefathers inventing a simple finger protector before embarking on all that skin-shredding wheel construction? It would - but our story begins soon after this great leap forward. The menfolk were able to handle rough stone without bleeding all over their mammoth-skin aprons because of the guitar.
The guitar has been around since Dinosaur Senior, and as soon as the monsters of rock discovered steel strings; they discovered blisters too. The solution was the first primitive thimble, or 'plectrum' as it was known at the time. A laughable device, it needed two (count 'em) two fingers to hold; but served hairy-handed axe wielders well for thousands of years. It is here that the clubbed-and-dragged-back-to-the-cave half of the population get involved. Someone had to sew those tour patches on. Someone had to darn those socks. Darn those socks! Tough on delicate, feminine badger-strangling fingers; tough on the causes of delicate, feminine badger-strangling fingers: Two 'plectrums' sewn together - the 'Thimble' was born.
But you knew that already. What of the thimble now? What place has this ancient device got in this digital age.....hm?....digit*aw, nevermind* ...as I was saying, digital age? The Tailors of Saville Row swear by them: "Look at those fucking thimbles on the sideboard!", they can often be heard saying. Nutjobs, The Tailors; steer clear. And there are the millions of 'Thimble Houses' decorating the nest tables and knick-knack cupboards of the old and confused. Thimble makers themselves have to make themselves thimbles themselves for themselves to make themselves thimbles. And then you have masturbation. You may have a thimble-sized model of The Forth Road Bridge. You may have a Forth Road Bridge-sized thimble. But there is no getting away from the masturbation. The simple fact is that if you are wearing ten thimbles (leather, metal, snakeskin, METAL?) it feels like someone else is doing it. The fetish thimble market is getting bigger, and bigger - dominaiting
Would it be fanciful to imagine our primitive forefathers inventing a simple finger protector before embarking on all that skin-shredding wheel construction? It would - but our story begins soon after this great leap forward. The menfolk were able to handle rough stone without bleeding all over their mammoth-skin aprons because of the guitar.
The guitar has been around since Dinosaur Senior, and as soon as the monsters of rock discovered steel strings; they discovered blisters too. The solution was the first primitive thimble, or 'plectrum' as it was known at the time. A laughable device, it needed two (count 'em) two fingers to hold; but served hairy-handed axe wielders well for thousands of years. It is here that the clubbed-and-dragged-back-to-the-cave half of the population get involved. Someone had to sew those tour patches on. Someone had to darn those socks. Darn those socks! Tough on delicate, feminine badger-strangling fingers; tough on the causes of delicate, feminine badger-strangling fingers: Two 'plectrums' sewn together - the 'Thimble' was born.
But you knew that already. What of the thimble now? What place has this ancient device got in this digital age.....hm?....digit*aw, nevermind* ...as I was saying, digital age? The Tailors of Saville Row swear by them: "Look at those fucking thimbles on the sideboard!", they can often be heard saying. Nutjobs, The Tailors; steer clear. And there are the millions of 'Thimble Houses' decorating the nest tables and knick-knack cupboards of the old and confused. Thimble makers themselves have to make themselves thimbles themselves for themselves to make themselves thimbles. And then you have masturbation. You may have a thimble-sized model of The Forth Road Bridge. You may have a Forth Road Bridge-sized thimble. But there is no getting away from the masturbation. The simple fact is that if you are wearing ten thimbles (leather, metal, snakeskin, METAL?) it feels like someone else is doing it. The fetish thimble market is getting bigger, and bigger - dominaiting
Wednesday, 21 September 2011
A Tale Of Two Ditties
Seems it never rains in Southern California. We've often heard that kind of talk before; one day it had a life-changing effect on Reginald Dwight.
In Watford, in the 1960's, most houses still had an outside loo and somebody had to supply them. Reg's mum and dad ran 'The Plough' pub, and hoped little Reggie would one day take over; but Reg had bigger dreams. He went into business with his pal Bernard - Reg designed and built conveniences, while his friend provided a cheap and lightweight waterproof roofing. The orders flooded in. Business boomed. But it wasn't enough for Reg....
Seems it never rains in Southern California. Reg heard Albert Hammond on the radio one day and decided it was time to expand. Bernard was less than keen - he liked Watford, he liked the rain, he liked 'The Plough', he wished Reg had listened to his old man. They rowed. Reg claimed he didn't need Bernard's lightweight waterproof roofing in a state where it never rained. He decided to fly away.
He got on board a westbound seven forty seven. Changed his name. Changed the firm's name to bring it in line with American phraseology. Started touting his goods. Soon he realised that many American homes had inside lavatories. Undeterred he sold his alfresco toilets as a novelty - something to compliment a garden party or BBQ; a quaint reminder to expats of austerities passed... then it started raining. Man, it started raining.
Reg's toilets had a built-in obsolescence - they were attractive enough, but any businessman will tell you there's no point making something that'll last forever. Back in Blighty the old loos were crumbling away and there was no-one around to replace them. Things got so bad that fathers would urinate in the street - a protest at having to 'go' outside without the proper convenience. Bernard, watching from his upstairs room, finally decided where his future lied: beyond this yellowed brick road. He called Reg. Reg was calling him. They got an 'engaged' signal for six years, until finally making contact once more: "Get on board a westbound seven forty seven....
Elton's Johns & Bernie's Tarpaulins conquered America, The U.K., The World....
Please don't tell 'em how you found me, don't tell 'em how you found me....
©EMI Music Publishing & B. Taupin.
and apologies.
In Watford, in the 1960's, most houses still had an outside loo and somebody had to supply them. Reg's mum and dad ran 'The Plough' pub, and hoped little Reggie would one day take over; but Reg had bigger dreams. He went into business with his pal Bernard - Reg designed and built conveniences, while his friend provided a cheap and lightweight waterproof roofing. The orders flooded in. Business boomed. But it wasn't enough for Reg....
Seems it never rains in Southern California. Reg heard Albert Hammond on the radio one day and decided it was time to expand. Bernard was less than keen - he liked Watford, he liked the rain, he liked 'The Plough', he wished Reg had listened to his old man. They rowed. Reg claimed he didn't need Bernard's lightweight waterproof roofing in a state where it never rained. He decided to fly away.
He got on board a westbound seven forty seven. Changed his name. Changed the firm's name to bring it in line with American phraseology. Started touting his goods. Soon he realised that many American homes had inside lavatories. Undeterred he sold his alfresco toilets as a novelty - something to compliment a garden party or BBQ; a quaint reminder to expats of austerities passed... then it started raining. Man, it started raining.
Reg's toilets had a built-in obsolescence - they were attractive enough, but any businessman will tell you there's no point making something that'll last forever. Back in Blighty the old loos were crumbling away and there was no-one around to replace them. Things got so bad that fathers would urinate in the street - a protest at having to 'go' outside without the proper convenience. Bernard, watching from his upstairs room, finally decided where his future lied: beyond this yellowed brick road. He called Reg. Reg was calling him. They got an 'engaged' signal for six years, until finally making contact once more: "Get on board a westbound seven forty seven....
Elton's Johns & Bernie's Tarpaulins conquered America, The U.K., The World....
Please don't tell 'em how you found me, don't tell 'em how you found me....
©EMI Music Publishing & B. Taupin.
and apologies.
Monday, 19 September 2011
Why I Quit International* Football
This is about Kevin**
Kevin's mum looked like a skinnier Nigella Lawson, or a greedier Diane Keen and cooked us 'Quavers' as a treat. Has that settled in yet? 'Quavers': home made. Kevin and I were in the same class, but his mum was 20 years younger than mine - this makes it totally OK for me to fancy her, aged 11. She was married to a bookish man with a 'tache, who looked like Reggie Perrin's son-in-law. What on earth did she see in him? Nice man, though. So we are in the same class and in the football team too - equal 11th best footballers at the school.
We had previous. At nursery there was a sandpit; and in that sandpit there was a saw, ee-i ee-i o. Health & Safety was in it's pre-school then too - all we had was a picture of Brian Wilson, with "If you see this man, scream" underneath. A saw. A proper metal one with a wooden handle and some little balsa wood blocks to cut. I hit Kevin on the head with it to see what would happen; then I hit myself on the head to even things up. I can still see the little dents in our heads.......then weeping....then blood. Kevin's mum always raised an eyebrow towards me after that; an untrusting but devilishly attractive eyebrow. Much later we went to Upton Park to see Diddy David Hamilton, John Peel, Roy North [Basil Brush's 'arm'-a-matey] & other celebs play in a charidee match against a West Ham XI. I can still see the magical cinemascope vision of green shiny velvetness under floodlights - as important as the first sight of the sea. The car was stolen and we had to traipse to the tube. The name 'Jinx' soon stuck.
Our school was the biggest in the area; we had the biggest population to choose from, acres of pitch, more footballs, more whitewash, the lot. As a result we bullied all the other schools we played. Our attack and midfield were so big that the opposition were too scared to go in our half - so there was room in defense for a couple of 'stoppers'. Our P.E. teacher, Mr. Dyall drew an imaginary box from the edge of the penalty area to the half-way line. My job as left back was to hoof the ball away if it came into the box - leave the box and the slipper would follow; pass to one of ours enough times and the nod would be given to go up for a corner. One corner. Being left-footed, I would start the game in the No.3 shirt, and Kevin got the No.12 for the second half. Never rivals, never a crossed word.
Cut to the District Cup Final. We got there easily, but knew little of our opponents. In an act of heartless betrayal, our headmaster decided to call in a coach from Dagenham F.C.; then in the 'Berger Isthmian League' [oh, the glamour] and relegate poor Mr. Dyall to magic sponge duties. Mister Big showed us all sorts of systems and strategies on a blackboard and we looked at him like Homer Simpson; wishing he'd just give us a doughnut and some orangeade. He knew 'they' were weak down their right - no pace, lacking that all-important first touch blah blah - and I was to change from Doug Rougvie to Roberto Carlos at the drop of a cap. We were being asked to think out of the imaginary box.
The final was played in a stadium. We had nets for the first time that season, and spent the entire warm-up period smashing balls into them - while our enemy were probably stretching every sineNO, they were smashing balls into their net too. #Nets. The whistle went, we kicked off and the ball was passed straight to me. Then [and only then] one of my own team was in the imaginary box with me [the cheek!] wanting a pass. Of course!: The Plan. We did a one-two past their right-winger and just carried on running. I lobbed the ball over their right-back and found myself 30-odd yards out with the goalie making a suicidal charge out of his area. Time stood still. I could knock it past him and dribble it into the empty net, or try the lob. I fell over and sprained an ankle. They went up the other end and with no left-back to worry about, went 1:0 up. Kevin came on and kept them out until half-time - but having to play nearly a whole game took it's toll: we lost 6:0. Five goals in the last ten minutes. Kevin's mum blamed me.
I gave up on the footie after that and cricket came along to split us up. Kevin was rubbish at it, so could fill the No.3 shirt with pride and distinction thereafter. He later married a librarian who was older than him by the same margin as his mum was to me. Which proves nothing. I wonder if she can make 'Quavers'.
*The 'International' bit was Mr. Dyall from Sri Lanka - we later played many times against each other on the cricket field - a lovely man.
**Kevin is not his real name. I changed it in case Paul got uppity about me fancying his mum.
Kevin's mum looked like a skinnier Nigella Lawson, or a greedier Diane Keen and cooked us 'Quavers' as a treat. Has that settled in yet? 'Quavers': home made. Kevin and I were in the same class, but his mum was 20 years younger than mine - this makes it totally OK for me to fancy her, aged 11. She was married to a bookish man with a 'tache, who looked like Reggie Perrin's son-in-law. What on earth did she see in him? Nice man, though. So we are in the same class and in the football team too - equal 11th best footballers at the school.
We had previous. At nursery there was a sandpit; and in that sandpit there was a saw, ee-i ee-i o. Health & Safety was in it's pre-school then too - all we had was a picture of Brian Wilson, with "If you see this man, scream" underneath. A saw. A proper metal one with a wooden handle and some little balsa wood blocks to cut. I hit Kevin on the head with it to see what would happen; then I hit myself on the head to even things up. I can still see the little dents in our heads.......then weeping....then blood. Kevin's mum always raised an eyebrow towards me after that; an untrusting but devilishly attractive eyebrow. Much later we went to Upton Park to see Diddy David Hamilton, John Peel, Roy North [Basil Brush's 'arm'-a-matey] & other celebs play in a charidee match against a West Ham XI. I can still see the magical cinemascope vision of green shiny velvetness under floodlights - as important as the first sight of the sea. The car was stolen and we had to traipse to the tube. The name 'Jinx' soon stuck.
Our school was the biggest in the area; we had the biggest population to choose from, acres of pitch, more footballs, more whitewash, the lot. As a result we bullied all the other schools we played. Our attack and midfield were so big that the opposition were too scared to go in our half - so there was room in defense for a couple of 'stoppers'. Our P.E. teacher, Mr. Dyall drew an imaginary box from the edge of the penalty area to the half-way line. My job as left back was to hoof the ball away if it came into the box - leave the box and the slipper would follow; pass to one of ours enough times and the nod would be given to go up for a corner. One corner. Being left-footed, I would start the game in the No.3 shirt, and Kevin got the No.12 for the second half. Never rivals, never a crossed word.
Cut to the District Cup Final. We got there easily, but knew little of our opponents. In an act of heartless betrayal, our headmaster decided to call in a coach from Dagenham F.C.; then in the 'Berger Isthmian League' [oh, the glamour] and relegate poor Mr. Dyall to magic sponge duties. Mister Big showed us all sorts of systems and strategies on a blackboard and we looked at him like Homer Simpson; wishing he'd just give us a doughnut and some orangeade. He knew 'they' were weak down their right - no pace, lacking that all-important first touch blah blah - and I was to change from Doug Rougvie to Roberto Carlos at the drop of a cap. We were being asked to think out of the imaginary box.
The final was played in a stadium. We had nets for the first time that season, and spent the entire warm-up period smashing balls into them - while our enemy were probably stretching every sineNO, they were smashing balls into their net too. #Nets. The whistle went, we kicked off and the ball was passed straight to me. Then [and only then] one of my own team was in the imaginary box with me [the cheek!] wanting a pass. Of course!: The Plan. We did a one-two past their right-winger and just carried on running. I lobbed the ball over their right-back and found myself 30-odd yards out with the goalie making a suicidal charge out of his area. Time stood still. I could knock it past him and dribble it into the empty net, or try the lob. I fell over and sprained an ankle. They went up the other end and with no left-back to worry about, went 1:0 up. Kevin came on and kept them out until half-time - but having to play nearly a whole game took it's toll: we lost 6:0. Five goals in the last ten minutes. Kevin's mum blamed me.
I gave up on the footie after that and cricket came along to split us up. Kevin was rubbish at it, so could fill the No.3 shirt with pride and distinction thereafter. He later married a librarian who was older than him by the same margin as his mum was to me. Which proves nothing. I wonder if she can make 'Quavers'.
*The 'International' bit was Mr. Dyall from Sri Lanka - we later played many times against each other on the cricket field - a lovely man.
**Kevin is not his real name. I changed it in case Paul got uppity about me fancying his mum.
The Worlds Most Dangerous Alternatives To Downton Abbey
Period Drama. These two words allow the distance between "Cor, I don't half fancy him/her", and "How about it , babe?" to stretch to two hours. So thrill-seekers who ignore 'Spooks' now Miranda Raison's not in it, need something else for 9:00 p.m. Sunday nights. Well, you didn't need to worry about "World's Most Dangerous Roads", first in a series of who cares, about those tracks seldom travelled. This week: Peru.
First of all: Ben Fogle and Hugh Dennis are still alive. If they'd perished down a Peruvian mountainside, we would've heard about it before last night's show went out. Spoiler alert too late. Imagine one of those Top Gear "challenges", halve the budget, and put lovable fluffy labrador-loving Ben Fluffy Labrador Fogle, with Hugh Looks Like My Mate Martin Dennis in place of the "boys". I reckon they could have saved a bit more cash by getting Hugh to do the voice-over - he would've lightened the mood by doing his Prince Phillip - instead we had rent-a-doom someone from the agency. Every stage of their journey was flagged up as another potential death plunge; but the car with the camera crew in it was already past the peril. We were promised all sorts of killer species along the way, but when did a snake [poisonous or otherwise] ever force it's way into a moving 4x4? I'm sure some of the scenery was spectacular, but I was too busy watching everyone else's tweets about 'Downton Abbey' and 'Spooks' to notice.
Foggy Bendle got a bit tetchy with Den Huggis at one point. Ben could've done this alone, [or with Nookie Bear for that matter] he knows the terrain and the creepy-crawlies, while Hugh [ugh, for short] is a bit towny. So there was the slight chance of fisticuffs breaking out - I'll give them that one. Perhaps next week they'll do the weekly shop and Ben [en, for short] will be the wet fish out of water. Don't matter, you'll be watching Downton, or Spooks, or even Antiques Roadshow [on 'Sunday 8:00+1'] - and I'll be with you; unless they visit The Acle Straight in North Norfolk; now that's a dangerous road. Not because of the road, but the people on it. Eyes at different heights. With flat-earth paranoia....
First of all: Ben Fogle and Hugh Dennis are still alive. If they'd perished down a Peruvian mountainside, we would've heard about it before last night's show went out. Spoiler alert too late. Imagine one of those Top Gear "challenges", halve the budget, and put lovable fluffy labrador-loving Ben Fluffy Labrador Fogle, with Hugh Looks Like My Mate Martin Dennis in place of the "boys". I reckon they could have saved a bit more cash by getting Hugh to do the voice-over - he would've lightened the mood by doing his Prince Phillip - instead we had rent-a-doom someone from the agency. Every stage of their journey was flagged up as another potential death plunge; but the car with the camera crew in it was already past the peril. We were promised all sorts of killer species along the way, but when did a snake [poisonous or otherwise] ever force it's way into a moving 4x4? I'm sure some of the scenery was spectacular, but I was too busy watching everyone else's tweets about 'Downton Abbey' and 'Spooks' to notice.
Foggy Bendle got a bit tetchy with Den Huggis at one point. Ben could've done this alone, [or with Nookie Bear for that matter] he knows the terrain and the creepy-crawlies, while Hugh [ugh, for short] is a bit towny. So there was the slight chance of fisticuffs breaking out - I'll give them that one. Perhaps next week they'll do the weekly shop and Ben [en, for short] will be the wet fish out of water. Don't matter, you'll be watching Downton, or Spooks, or even Antiques Roadshow [on 'Sunday 8:00+1'] - and I'll be with you; unless they visit The Acle Straight in North Norfolk; now that's a dangerous road. Not because of the road, but the people on it. Eyes at different heights. With flat-earth paranoia....