Galileo, Magnifico

I’ve wanted to write something about Vicente for a while, but the timing never seemed right. Well, now seems as good a time as any, since his much hyped re-emergence. For much of the season, we have been left in the dark as to whether Vicente would be on the pitch, on the bench or in recovery.

 

Way back at the curtain call of August 2011, news broke through that Brighton and Hove Albion were set to sign Vicente Rodríguez Guillén, a name and personality whom had escaped me until that point. I won’t pretend to be an expert in European football and claim I issued the immortal words “Could do a job”. He was alien to me. Apart from a latter recollection that I had three of him to fill my Panini World Cup 2006 album (a desperate attempt to claw back my youth and youthfulness).

 

Three Vicente’s trumped by 17 (Seventeen) Clint Dempseys

 

 

August 2011 seems like a lifetime ago on a personal level. I was re-finding my feet after a long spell of depression (too long) and things were beginning to pick up. The spring was returning to my once bouncy step.

 

Despite knowing next to nothing of Vicente, I got caught up in the fervour via www.northstandchat.com For my sins, I was sold as soon as I heard he was a Spanish winger bearing the nickname of El puñal de Benicalap (The Dagger of Benicalap). Further research suggested that he was once described as being the best winger in the world. And he was on the verge of signing for Brighton? Championship Manager cheating type proportions of improbability.

 

This guy has extreme class, 38 caps for Spain, five major trophy medals and a fanbase larger than our entire club. Real Madrid once tried to buy him for €36m. €36m! To think I used to get excited about paying a five figure fee for a promising non-league talent.

 

This wasn’t a case of Ian Wright playing for Burnley in his twilight years or Socrates turning up and playing for Garforth Town. This was a case of an injury plagued (former?) world class player trying to rebuild his playing career in a different environment. A man with time on his side and not an apparent swansong.

 

Anyway, the internet began to buzz and various sources began to suggest that El puñal was on the verge of joining the mighty stripes. Madness.

 

A poster, going by the name of Ezzoud, claimed the initial scoop of actual proof that the dagger was in Hove.

 

 

“Okay folks – I don’t post much and have never done any rumour type things before so….

I have just seen Gus, Tanno and three other men entering Galileo italian restaurant in Woodland Drive. I was buying a paper from the shop next door and it took me a while to work out what was going on.

The other four had gone into the restaurant but Tanno was still outside so I politely asked him “Are we signing Vincente Rodriquez” and he looked at me suspiciously and said “Yes we are” and continued in to the restuarant.

What does Vicente look like – I didn’t get a very good look at the other three men but one looked

a bit like Cristian Baz if that’s any use?

This was at 1.45 pm..”

 

 

The Pizzeria

It way my day off. I was a stones throw away from Galileo and curiosity got the better of me. It would be churlish to turn down this opportunity to check it out. My palms were sticky, my brow housed beads of sweat and my general demeanour was that of a trembling teen on the verge of losing his virginity. All over a player I had little knowledge of thirty minutes prior.

 

750 metres later, I was standing outside Galileo, the premier suburban pizzeria of Hove. I could see my intended targets, but the glare of the window scuppered any sort of chance of a quick pap and run. I was going to have to go inside.

 

I strode through the front door and was greeted by an empty looking restaurant, save for one table. Gus, Tano, Vicente and another gentleman (I assume it was his agent) were next to me. I was so close, I could smell the basil of Tano’s bruschetta and the parmesan on Vicente’s pasta dish. I grabbed a menu from the counter and steadied my phone, setup to take the all important snap.

 

 The Decoy

 

 

“Hello mate, it’s Baz here. I’m in Galileo. What pizza did you want?”

 

Nothing – Of course, there was never going to be a response. Due to my decade old hearing problem, I have been unable to use a telephone for its conventional use. But in this instance, there was no-one at the end of the line. The camera was set.

 

“Ok. Excellent. I’ll order that now”

 

Click

 

My mission had been accomplished or so I thought. I checked the phone and the first effort proved nothing beyond being in a wholly deserted restaurant.

 

A stark reminder of previous transfer windows

 

I set about making my second phone call and went through the same rigmarole.

 

Click

 

 Trembling hands do little to disguise the premier appearance of Vicente

 

 

Vicente had been snapped and I dragged my shaking knees out of the door and returned to the safety of my car.

 

After a day or two of protracted talks and a mad dash of an Albion supporting airport worker to sign the all important paperwork, Vicente was a Brighton player. Footballing experts, commentators and pundits alike were agog with news of this capture. Potentially the finest and most famous signing of our dear south coast outfit.

 

I write this blog on the back of the latest cameo of the dagger. We went to Elland Road and our efforts had been stifled until his introduction. The most famous son of Benicalap proceeded to lay on two goals as Brighton took the spoils – to add to his short, but triumphant appearance against big spending Leicester.

 

In this past week, his effortless transition from the busy hands of the physio and a smattering of appearances to a match winner has been seamless. Cries from the (padded seat) terraces that we will not see him during the winter months have been misguided. From his deathbed, he has skipped off and potentially changed the course of our season with a little help from his amigos.

 

The start of the calendar year is always an important one. Heading towards the stage whereby the table does not lie. The rush of games over Christmas can disrupt even the greatest of squads allowing little recovery for the chilled winter months that lay ahead.

 

In the middle of things (vs Leicester)

 

 

With a half fit Vicente, the future looks bright for this season. Very bright.

 

Heaven forbid all else, we unsheathe a fully fit dagger upon the Championship…

Turned On

So… last week I was turned on. This week, I was turned up.

I was plugged into a machine and wired up. I was then played a series of beeps, sweeps and creeps. That may ring a bell with a few discerning film fanatics amongst you. I shall put you out of your misery. Spaceballs. The fantastic Michael Winslow (of Police Academy fame) in his element.

If you haven’t seen Spaceballs, I implore you to do so. It is spoofery at its very finest.

 

Movember crosses the Atlantic

Anyway… In the soundproof room with only the soft speaking Audioligist (Maltese Roberta), we managed to beep our way to an acceptable level of sound, after a long series of tests. I was encouraged to have a wander outside to suck in alien noises, which happened to include the beeping of a reversing truck, a speedy and fraught conversation between three Chinese smokers and a neighbouring air vent. All important sounds on differing levels. I coped and refrained from attacking my remote control and hitting the volume button.

Triumphantly, I strode back to the hearing centre and set about relieving myself in the toilets (I did actually type ‘revealing’ there, but realised my obvious mistake). A tinkling sound pervaded my delicate ear drum, which was interesting. The usual process followed and I eventually placed my hands underneath the hand dryer. Well… it sounded as though a Black Hawk was hovering above my head and I tried to duck for cover. It sounded very much like Armageddon, or at least what I think Amargeddon (another great film – Cinematic candy and American hugging at its very finest) may sound like. Back to the laptop for a bit of fine tuning. The crisis was absolved, after a few tests under the hand dryer and an acceptable level was found.

You missed me, Harry? You bet I did!

The last test of the day was to focus on the nuances of the English language. What followed was a blind test of a variety of sounds, as before, enamating from a ‘massage parlour’. With my new increased volume I was able to tell the difference between an ‘ooh’ and an ‘mmm’.

That short test was then followed up with the reading of a passage about Malta. This was done behind a screen, disallowing me the chance to lip read, something I have relied heavily upon over the last decade. It wasn’t exactly Shakespeare, but it sufficed. I have been encouraged to dig deep and find some friends that read ‘Red Tops’ and get them to read me sentences as a repetition exercise. Good to start low apparently, with passages that do not use a vast array of vocab and have short sentences. Ha!

Incredibly, I managed to follow and repeat much of the story with only a few mistakes. Something that has proven to be impossible over the years. Satisfying! I may well be able to hear in the dark at some point.

As practice, I have been encouraged to repeat what people say to me. Apologies in advance on that front. Let’s hope we don’t degrade to the level of the playground – “Stop copying me!” “Stop copying me!”.

YMCA as presented by a school for the Dyslexic

One thing I have noticed is that I existed in a world of peace, quiet and tranquility. I had forgotten how noisy life could be. Thank goodness, I saw sense and left London. Brighton is a little quieter. The peace is missed a little bit, but I am sure I will get used to it. Ho hum!

Testing… Testing… 1… 2… 3…

The wound had healed, the scar is minimal, the pain had subsided. I was beckoned back to the hearing centre of the south (Southampton) to have my processor fitted. I got bored of Southampton before my first visit, but needs be must. I faced 2.5 hours of sound tests, volume checks, pitch tinkering (just not cricket) and tuning.

Thirty-one days with only hearing from my right lug ‘ole has not been as arduous as I first thought. Indeed, it gave me an even greater respect (if that were possible) for those that have no hearing whatsoever/less hearing than me.

I was beckoned into a soundproof room and pointed towards a rather inviting looking leather seat. After a short introduction, the lady then fumbled around for my magnet (that is not a euphemism). I was attached to a machine and we had lift off (that is not a double entendre).  The first sounds that breached my ear drum were a series of high pitch squeals and beeps. It was like watching an episode of Jeremy Kyle.

 

Life is Beautiful

What followed was a series of sound tests to gauge what I could pick up. Amongst the ringings of that blasted tinnitus, I was encouraged to press a button through a series of beeps for a good/bad/ugly 20 minutes. We eventually completed those tests and set about adjusting the volume. As my ear/brain has ‘forgotten’ the general sounds one might hear, we started and stopped at a low volume. It was interesting to listen to my auidiologist talk to me. It was a little like Kit from Knightrider fame. I was the Hoff for a brief and enjoyable moment.

 

The Hoff and Leon Knight

I was warned that sounds would be a little alien to me. Apart from sounds that had since escaped me – the rustling of paper, the tapping of the keyboard, my own breathing – I was surprised to hear my ‘new voice’. What I can now hear can only be described as a gay Transformer (I’m not kidding). I am desperately hoping that this is temporary and I have not subjected you to years of camp robotic mumblings.

 

Optimus Sublime

I’ve had a great deal of fun with this new sound. I’ve realised that if I could bottle and sell these sounds, I could make a long career for myself as an impressionist. Sadly, I think it is temporary.

The next and final part of the latest raft of tests was a general run through of help and assistance, followed by a repetition exercise. The basic sounds of the English language.

A rather pleasant lady emitted some sounds from behind a bit of paper. I was asked to repeat what I had heard. One can only describe them as being sound effects from a backstreet studio in Amsterdam. ‘Ooh’ ‘Ahh’ ‘Mmm’ ‘Sss’ ‘Shh’. The small child in me wanted to giggle heartily, but there was business to be done and I managed to contain my hysteria. It was pretty easy to determine between the different sounds, other than the ‘Ooh’ and the ‘Mmm’. I don’t think that will matter too much in later life, as they are both positive sounds!

My boss told me to ‘lighten the f*ck up’.

Ordinarily, I would have been a little dismayed,

but I am a lighting assistant in a porn studio

I was informed that it is going to take a while for my brain to comprehend all these new sounds. Sometimes as long as three months. Well, I’ve always had a sharp and lightening quick intellect, so I don’t think she reckoned on meeting such a modest genius.

To be continued…

Operation: I Beg Your Pardon?

I was not given enough notice. A message, via my mother, indicated that they were ready to slice me open on 12th October. Six days notice! I knew it might be a little sudden, but six days?! That was not a great deal of time to er… let my friends know… er… prepare myself.

Arrangements were made for me to jet to Southampton and Chandlers Ford to have so pre-op talks/tests/proddings on the Monday before the operation. When I say ‘jet’, I mean crawl in traffic through the bottle-neck of Arundel and the various school runs of the Sussex and Hampshire conurbations.

Maybe a slight exaggeration

My pre-op tests were interesting to say the least. The first one was based at the hearing centre at Southampton Uni. It was short and it was very sweet (if you have heard my singing voice, you will largely agree). In aid of research and progression, I was videotaped and asked to perform various aural tasks (aural!). Including the musical scales, something I have not done since my voice broke and a sound check – counting from one to ten, whilst increasing the volume. I have previously been likened to Brian Blessed when it comes to volume, so apologies to my hearing therapist for defeaning her – at least she was in the right place if there was any long-lasting damage.

The second part of my pre-op tests were in the hospital of my operation in Chandlers Ford.  I had three hours to kill and it is not easy to kill three hours in Southampton. I ended up supping a coffee with a wide variety of people in McDonald’s, for my sins. Sorry, that should read a variety of wide people. I was astounded by the amount of people who saw fit to devour the American fayre in the Golden Arches produce BEFORE 12pm!

Only two hours to wait…

Whilst battling with five different Su Doku puzzles, I counted 27 people coming in and out of the fast food joint and feasting upon various beef patties, chicken burgers and what-have-you. By the time I had tired of the puzzles and people counting, I had devoured three cups of coffee and I was ready to move on.

The final stretch of my journey towards the hospital was spent in a Waitrose car park, people watching, whilst mucking about on Twitter. An overzealous parking attendant told me to move on if I did not wish to buy anything from the store, so I departed for the hospital. They were not ready for me, so I slumped into a leather chair and thumbed my way through a germ infested copy of the National Geographic. Definitely want to visit some salt flats before my time is up.

An American nurse called my name at least three times, before I eventually twigged that I was to be her next victim, particularly when the rest of the waiting room ignored her calls. I was ushered into a small room, with a lingering aroma of that school post-vomit smell.

A barrage of questions followed.

Do you have any allergies? Quiche

Does your family have any history of amnesia? I can’t remember

Do you suffer from any physical ailments like a loss of hearing? Pardon?

We then moved on to the physical side of things. I was beckoned to lose my shoes, shorts and any particulars I had on me. I was weighed and measured.

Thank you, Mr Baron. Your weight seems to be relatively normal and you are 5’11”.

Ah good…

Hold on one cotton picking minute. 5’11”!!!! I protested. I was measured again. 5’11”. No, no, no, no, NO!

Much like a flailing MP, I demanded a recount. The American lady frog marched me out to another height measuring device and I came in at 6’1″. I was relatively happy with that and was not going to quibble over the missing quarter of an inch. Justice prevailed. My protestations were vindicated. I do wonder how many patients lost a couple of inches in that hospital.

The penultimate check was a swab test. The test was rather invasive. I had a cotton bud jammed into pretty much every available orifice. I shall spare you the details.

Needless to say, I was feeling rather sheepish after such treatment and the final leg of my tests was to produce a ‘sample’. Having relieved myself on a number of occasions that very morning, it did not bode well when I was gifted a rather large looking test tube with a line at the top – “fill to this point” – it was made even more difficult by a staff meeting outside the toilet door. The old running of the tap trick worked a treat and the tube was soon filled. I reappeared with my sample to be faced by six or seven nurses, giggling amongst themselves.

With my tail placed firmly between my legs, I was bade them farewell. Freedom. For the time being.

The next two days went exceedingly quickly. I laboured on and the jitters were quelled by a rather pleasant distraction in the shape of a walk and cup of coffee with a lady that shall remain nameless on the day before the big operation. Wednesday morning came and I found myself back on the A27 under the guidance of Mr Baron of Sussex Senior and his Mercedes. A quiet journey later (my batteries were running out), I found myself returned to Chandlers Ford.

I was gifted a bedroom and for the next hour or so, I familiarised myself with the TV and electric bed – definitely be wanting the latter sometime in the not too distant future. I slipped into a rather unbecoming hospital gown and a dressing gown over the top.

A bit of Jerry Springer to lighten the mood!

A pretty nurse beckoned me into a wheelchair and I was given a grand tour of the hospital, before finally hitting the Anaethetists’ room, quite literally. There was no lasting damage to my foot and an apologetic nurse settled me on the table to ready myself for the knock out. The rest is a blur, thankfully, but I was informed that I shouted “Goodnight Vienna!” before my prone body succumbed to the anaesthetic.

I was the Starr of the show

I awoke at around 5pm to an empty room and a sore head. Just in time for Neighbours and a cup of tea! My head was still a little numb by the time the Captain and Mrs Wendover paid me a much welcome visit, bearing a Bonsai tree, some grapes and a humongous tin of chocolates. We chatted for what seemed like hours (not that it was arduous!) and they were kicked out to let me rest and finish off my dinner, which I must say was rather lovely (the dinner, not them getting kicked out).

 

The moment I awoke, I grabbed my camera!

 

Sesame and pumpkin coated chicken goujons with chilli jam = Yum!

 

The Bonsai courtesy of Captain and Mrs Wendover

Sleep was a little difficult, so I managed to keep the nurses entertained until approximately 0300 hours, before I drifted off into dream land. Woken at 0600 hours for some meds and a pot of tea, followed by a good old fashioned English Breakfast.

 

It tasted better than it looked

 

My last appointment, before heading back to God’s own city, was a brief chat with the surgeon, an unwrapping, and an x-ray to check everything was in place. It was and I had survived.

 

Unwrapped and uncensored with an impressive bruise forming

The bionic man

 

An interesting experience on the whole, but not one I would particularly like to repeat. Here’s hoping the implant doesn’t need any tinkering with! I’d rather not have my head sliced open again.

Mr Baron of Sussex Senior was waiting and I bade my farewells to the morning shift.

The end or maybe the beginning?

Pie in the Sky

I’m sure I was not alone in fearing that promises of a permanent home and Championship football was more of a dream than an attainable reality. Well, how wrong was I? Ever since my first game back in 1990, the flightless Seagull limped along, scratching for its next meal. Surviving, but growing weaker by the day.

Granted, there have been some good times in the last 20 years, but where we find ourselves today, was beyond my wildest dreams, certainly unexpected after unrest and an annual struggle since Mark McGhee’s team offered a meek attempt to avoid relegation back in 2006.

 

 

Cliché alert – a year is a long time in football. Well, in two years, Brighton & Hove Albion has travelled to infinity and beyond. At this point in 2009, we had been expelled from the League Cup by a smooth and slick Swansea side, we had picked up a measly 5 points from 6 games, including a 7-1 humbling by perennial chokers in the shape of Huddersfield. The south stand of Withdean was sagging ever further and the Falmer Community Stadium (yet to be christened Amex) was a mere sapling. A single skeletal stand and an orchestra of noise from the JCBs, drills and what-have-you.

The speed at which we have achieved in moving forward over the last two years, both on and off the pitch, is astounding. If we were a car, we would have a string of speeding fines throughout Sussex and if we were a train, we would have some overpaid Hollywood hothead, desperately trying to stop the express whilst attempting to deactivate the nuclear core. Everyone has upped their respective games from El-Abd to the marketing team and from the stewards to Gully’s Girls (and their tasty new uniform).

Blackpool was my first league visit to Amex and I found myself in the North Stand, courtesy of a trusting season ticket holder whom could not make the game. The Tangerines had been relegated from the top flight the previous season and I thought this was where we were going to come unstuck.

Oh ye of little faith.

We were one up within half an hour and two up immediately after the break. Our second goal, against our seaside cousins, saw a half eaten pie fly over my left shoulder. Released and freed by a man caught up in the joyous celebrations of a seemingly invincible lead. I think it was a Steak and Ale creation, but the whiff lasted for less than half a second. As it happened, our rock crumbled and Blackpool set about spoiling the party. Two goals from the veteran Kevin Phillips, a man that almost joined the ranks, had it not been for our southerly location.

 

10,000 pies sold per home match – the happiest and fattest fans in the land

 

I wanted to feel annoyed, frustrated, sad, angry, but walking out of the ground, I took another glance back at the Amex. It’s difficult to feel anything other than utter joy. Normally the throwing away of the two goal lead would have darkened my mood for the rest of the weekend, but the spring did not divorce my step and I quickly checked my battery drain phone to see when I could come again.

A Brighton team of old would have stuttered after throwing away a two goal lead. Was the bubble set to burst? No. We followed up the Blackpool ‘setback’, by slaying Premier League Sunderland in the Carling Cup. Being the best chance for Steve Bruce to gain a trophy, he fielded a relatively strong side. Throwing on £23m worth of strikers was not enough to negate the goal from our £2.5m man, CM-S.

 

 Can I have a hug afterwards?

Back to the bread and butter of the league and we put Peterborough to the sword, albeit in not such vintage fashion. Other results went our way and we found ourselves on top spot, a point clear of coat-tail grabbing Southampton. They must be a little tired of looking at our shapely derrière,  whilst we strut our stuff.

It is hard to take in. It is hard not to get too excited about our lofty position. It is a marathon, after all, and not a sprint. An effort is being made to not look too far ahead and enjoy the now. These years must be cherished as one does not know what is around the corner.

It certainly makes all those long trips to Gillingham, cold nights at Withdean and countless marches/letters/demos feel worthwhile and as if we have earned it, as the fans.

It all seemed like pie in the sky.

On a Wind and a Prayer

I am not religious, by any strength of the imagination, but I was guilty of letting out a prayer – “Please tell me, you have come up with a cure!”. Although, I am not an atheist, ‘it’ just hasn’t fund me yet.

It was my day off and I found myself at Southampton University for another raft of questions, pokings and proddings, in the journey to supply me with a Cochlear Implant. An implant into the head that shall hopefully make me hears things I don’t hear. Difficult to know what you don’t hear, other than general conversation, if you don’t know it is missing. The beeping of a pedestrian crossing is a good example. That has been missing for a number of years.

Anyway…

To be brutally honest, I could have slept until noon after a few weeks of working overtime to make up for time I missed for three stag dos and a wedding, but Baron Senior had the car out and Southampton was our destination.

We arrived early, so managed to grab an on site space, but we were left with a relatively long wait in the waiting room, a stifling heat. I avoided thumbing through the magazines to avoid any possibility of some infectious disease and resorted to reading Twitter on my phone. Being a smartphone, the battery lasted for about half an hour, so I amused myself  in other ways.

The first appointment was quickly upon me and I was beckoned upstairs by a rather elegant Maltese lady. The principle of the first meeting was to discuss the various models available to us (myself and two others) and what we could expect from the procedure. It seems it is a bit of a space race when it comes to Cochlear Implants. The main contenders are the Russians and the Americans. However, the Aussies and the French are hanging in there.

 

Russia vs USA – Who would have thought it?

We were taken into some sort of lecture room and sat down in front of a few speakers (people, not electrical speakers). To ensure nothing was missed, there was a lady sat in  the corner, furiously typing away at the conversations, transferred on to a big screen in front of us. I managed to follow the proceedings, pretty much, without having to refer to the screen, but the other two patients were glue to the text that was appearing.

We were run through the various different models and the various benefits. Each and everyone, as described, was placed in a silicon case to avoid deterioration and preserve them. At that point, we were asked if there were any comments or questions. I was the first person, in line, to be looked at, so I blurted out “I didn’t expect to find myself in Southampton discussing the possibility of having silicon implants!”. There was an embarrassed giggle from the five hearing people in the room. A slight delay (whilst my joke was typed up) and there was a chortling episode from my two fellow deaf patients – talk about dramatic pause! A delayed titter from the profoundly deaf.

 

Searching ‘silicon implants’ on the net is a joy to behold

 

We were then talked through the actual medical procedure and how they would slice open your head and do all sorts of things. There was a mention of the risk of meningitis and the risk of facial nerve damage. In the latter case, I might not look pleased, but at least the hearing is better. We were asked for comments and whether we had any relevant questions. Madam Fanny trumped up with a question as to whether it would ruin her perm. I almost choked on my own breath – first hearing it and then seeing it typed up on the screen. I didn’t realise perms still existed. I thought they had disappeared alongside cola cubes, CDs and telephone conversations.

 

That bonnet is not going to help the perm

The next appointment was a chat with a cochlear implant er… implantee, but they never showed. I was desperately hoping it was not a case of asking for directions and not showing. A further talk prevailed and we were informed that lunch beckoned. Music to my defective ears as I had only quaffed a nectarine and a satsuma thus far.

My Father and I hit the campus road and stumbled across a rather charmingly named ‘Terrace Cafe’. Options were not aplenty. The old man opted for a Chicken Karai and I decided upon the vegetable Jalfri. It was not long after I had devoured the Indian themed vegetable treat that my digestive system began to make impressive noises. My father returned to the hearing (or not hearing block) and I attempted to relieve myself of the pent up gas with a brisk walk across campus. The heavens opened and I sought solace in the only place I knew. Thankfully, the rumblings of my stomach was only audible to half of the office, so my blushings were partially saved. Although, I did make a few quick exits to expel some wind. Security meant that I needed to be buzzed in, so I spent much of an hour annoying the rather elegant looking receptionist. I put a jack-in-a-box to shame with my up and down performance.

 

Parp!

The final phase of this visit was another hearing test. It should be called detest. The only saving grace was that my Maltese lady was back into the fore. Aye carumba. Despite my best efforts and chat, we eventually continued with the hearing test. It is a case of taking your hearing aids out, being gifted some headphones and pressing a button when you hear a beep. I hear beeps all the time, so I was frantically pressing away, akin to George W Bush. Another step of the test is to watch a depressingly boring gentleman and repeat what he says. Apart from wanting to break the TV screen, I managed to score a few phrases. It seems my hearing is at 45% (with hearing aids). Annoying, but better than nothing.

Another raft of appointments came to a close. I managed to snag an email address off the Maltese lady for ‘any questions I might have’ and the A27 was beckoning us back to Brighton. The Jalfri seemed to have quietened down a bit (could have been the Raita) and the long road back to God’s own city beckoned.

A little bit closer to a little bit more hearing.

 

Word of the Day: Aeolist – a pompous, windy bore that pretends to have inspiration

 

Quote of the Day: “Hearing the blues, changed my life” – Van Morrison

 

Cheers

Name a friendly and cheerful bar and more often than not, you will find people saying ‘Cheers’, Boston, the place where everybody knows your name. Well, that was my answer until I stumbled across a quaint little place in the depths of Wiltshire. The bar at Withyslade Farm to be precise. And I am led to believe that they knew my name by the end of my short stay. I’m no Frasier Crane, but I did a lot of listening.

I had finished work slightly early and a road trip beckoned, to Tisbury. It was late and I was tired, but the pre-wedding festivities beckoned and I wasn’t going to miss ANY of it. Brighton became a distant memory in the rear view mirror as the Vauxhall Corsa plundered the miles in good time. Chichester, Portsmouth and Southampton came and went (thankfully), before hitting a gaggle of signs welcoming me, but warning me not to upset the local villagers. Pitchforks at the ready, I was not going to risk it.

 

Aye carumba! I must have visited Tisbury at the wrong time of the year

I eventually hit Tisbury Row and crept along the country lane with my eyes peeled. The sun was diminished at this stage, so I was relying on orienteering skills (and GPS). The very same GPS begged me to make a sharp right and who was I to argue. I eventually came to a stop amongst a sea of freshly ploughed fields. So, we’re camping, are we? My survival instincts kicked in and I turned the phone off. This wasn’t Withyslade Farm. An eight-point turn (careful not to get stuck in a field) ensued and I eventually found my final destination.A rather long, winding road took me up to an exquisitely beautiful estate, comprising of a cluster of lovely  looking farm buildings. A stud farm, I had been told.

 

A stud farm with an extra stud for a couple of days

I disembarked from my love wagon, only to be faced by a rather frisky and excited looking horse, the creature of my nightmarish sleeps. If you have never seen a (partially) grown man cry, then stick a horse in front of me and tell the grandkids. Thankfully, a sturdy stable door reduced the risk of a quick boxer short swap and I was inside to be greeted by such a wonderful group of people. An Otter was placed in my hand and the fun began. An Otter in the beverage sense and not the animal. Although, I do believe there was a stuffed otter around there somewhere, along with pikes, bears, tigers, mooses and what-have-you. I’ve often wondered why the plural of Goose is Geese, but the plural of Moose is Mooses, but it hasn’t deprived me of too much sleep over the years.

I like pubs and I like bars, within reason. There are precious few left that really make you feel at home. I’m a bit of a sucker for the old fashioned drinking establishment that makes you feel as if you have wandered into your living room from your kitchen. A friendly smile from behind the bar, no obtrusive music and a free seat without having to hover around like a hawk, whilst being shoved around, to secure a haven to place ones bottom.

 

I hear ye, brother!

Withyslade ROCKED. A wonderful place. Not the sort of place that would make you feel unwelcome if you made a move for a gratuitous mint. This is a place that makes you feel right at home from the very off. The owners and staff are those sorts of persons that leave you feeling as if you have been life long friends and far from being a customer. I would have moved in, but my measly budget would not get me far (not to say that it is overexpensive!). Helen, the big chief, was an absolute beaut. One never felt like a customer in her presence.

The rest of the Wendover (and Mayorgas) clan had taken over a small cottage to the west of the main block. So I made it my mission to soak up the Wendover brilliance. Nita was always to be found with poquito Nico in tow, for an early morning leg stretch. On the friday morning, we patted a horse, much to Nico’s discontent and mine. A soiled nappy later (Not Nico) and we were off to pluck some ripe looking Strawberries. Excellent fun all round. PYO (Pick Your Own) is a British institution and fun was definitely had.

The afternoon was spent at the wedding reception. Manual work is usually a great chore, but in this instance, it was soooooooo much fun. Moving chairs, tables, flower arrangements were no longer a chore. I even had a bridesmaid wrapped around my neck… putting up bunting. My hearing travails mean that I need to see a face (lip reading) to hear, so Nikki devised a plan to pull my hair to navigate my way about the yard. Around the left temple, left and so on… Ingenious, if not a little painful.

 

Left! Left! Left! Left! Oh, blooddy hell Basil…

Ross decided that a dip on the day of the wedding was a resolute plan. So Russ parked his mobile home in a slight layby and we dug our way towards the stream. An excellent decision, until I was summoned to rescue the rather elegant looking photographer (Alice) from the road. It was a 15 minute walk, but a perilous terrain. Alice and I eventually made it down, having battled through weeds, cowslip and nettles. Only to be faced by three bare cheeked men. I await the photos for that and apologies for not downing my boxer shorts. I didn’t feel that Wilts was ready for that.

One of those events (events does not do it justice) that you want to last forever.

Time creeps on, but the memories will last forever.

 

Word of the Day: Estrapade – A horses attempt to remove the rider

 

Quote of the Day: “Trip over love and you will get up. Fall in love and you will fall forever” – anon

 

 

 

 

Trembling Hands, Dry Mouth, Empty Mind…

…a best man speech that didn’t quite go to plan.

What I did say was… dsjkfhskfjhksdjghsakjgh

 

Does anyone know the Heinrich Manoeuvre?

What I meant to say was…

Before I begin properly, a little Tweet on Twitter, told me that it was Honour the Forces day today. So I thought it would be appropriate to raise our glasses for ex-service, currently serving and those that could not be here today and thank them for risking life and limb with a short hair trim. If I could have everyone upstanding…

To the Armed Forces!

I never imagined I would be standing here today, in front of your guys, as Ross’ Best Man. Partly because he has an army of wonderful friends, although such a shame none of them could make it, and partly because about a month or so after first meeting him, he politely informed me that we would not have been friends at school. Apparently I was a bit too thespian for him…

I guess you can call this closure.

The proposal was not the most romantic of proposals. My phone beeped (without my knowledge as usual) and I found a text message saying “Best Man? x”.

“I do!”

To gain an understanding of the enormity of the challenge, I decided to look up the meaning of a wedding. I dusted off my dictionary and thumbed my way to the relevant page. Eventually, I came across a definition. “A sparkling and incandescent union between two inanimate objects”. That didn’t sound particularly romantic, it was then that I realised I was looking up welding!

I first clapped eyes on my soon to be flatmate when a rather smart car pulled up at Morrell Halls. Ross and Joe stumbled out bedecked in Billabong and Oakley. They looked like a couple of pro-surfers or idiots – take your pick. After the initial “Hello, where are you from?” They boasted of their drinking exploits, I was informed that they had devoured a 24 crate of Stella Artois on their way up from Exeter. They were either seasoned drinkers or prone to the odd mistruth…

They then spent the next couple of days blasting footballs at me and generally pushing the shrinking violet back into the pod, intermittently, whilst getting pissed in Fresher’s Week.

Despite what he said about the friendship, it was not long before he succumbed to my wily charms and I was invited to celebrate Nikki’s 18th and Neil’s 21st, down in Devon. I don’t know whether any of you had the privilege of visiting Lower Creedy, but it was a small portion of paradise. As if it had been lifted from Sussex and transported a couple of hundred miles west. Dogs pretending to be ducks. Ducks pretending to be dogs. Rogue budgies. Horses with a penchant for sitting on cars.

We even got to savour Mr Wendover’s peach wine extravaganza. I liked it, but Ross told me they were added to disguise the flavour of the cheap wine. Don’t belive that for a second!

The house was mentioned in the Domesday book, I’ll have you know. Way, way, way, way, WAY before Nita and David set up camp.

A few days before the party, Neil and Ross ended up sleeping in their car overnight, in Exeter. I can’t do the story any sort of justice, so I shall refer you to the email that Neil sent me.

“Jeez Baz, you pulled that memory out from the cobwebs…….i think it was a usual night out on the plonk to all the old favourite haunts including that esteemed establishment: ‘the warehouse’..

It started well enough but after the snake bite and black competition and then the concrete drink the Captain and I (having run out of options for floor space) thought it would be a good idea to sleep it off in the car rather than surprising the old dear because she normally locks us out anyway.  Neither of us had much trouble sleeping in those day but it turns out the poor little tyke had to wind down the car window at about 3am to vomit, this made him a bit chilly so he dug the keys out from our secret hiding place (my pocket) and turned the cur on, revved the engines, and turned the heaters up full blast then promptly went back to sleep.

So Neil wakes up to a feint but persistent tapping which turns into a full on hammering once he realises how deeply asleep he is and the fact the engine is on.  But he cant see anything because all the windows are misted up and the entire car is dripping with condensation.  After wiping a small peep hole in the window an un-amused face with big black hat is peering back at me about an inch away….hhhmmmm.  It takes me about half an hour to calm the policeman down, apologise for the multiple phone calls of complaint from residents about the car engine being on half the night and explain our situation and that we were in no way considering to drive but we didn’t have any friends and our parents were both away on a Christian missionary project.

He asked me to check the pulse of my passenger to make sure he was still alive and I reassured him that no problem my brother is normally that colour and sleeps in a semi foetal position with his mouth open drooling allot.

Of course Rosco missed the whole event.”

Happier times in the back of a vehicle

Anyway…

Our friendship eventually blossomed. He even came to watch me in a University production of Cinderella. I was keenly looking out from backstage to see if Ross had turned up. My co-star then pointed out a chap in the audience who was waving.

“I recognise that chap…. Oh god, it’s a Wendover”

It later transpired that my co-star had schooled with Ross and Neil and the whole Thespian subject became apparent.

“Do you know him?”

“Er… No, never seen him before in my life!”

It soon became clear that the Wendovers and the various affiliates – Joe, Ginge, Chas, Mr Maynard et al ran the playground.

We ended up being THE party flat amongst the 100 or so. Much to the dismay of the Hall Manager. A warden ended up taking early retirement, on health ground, as we caused so much trouble. We were eventually summoned to meet the manager and issued a fine. Which was doubled due to some rather blue language from the Captain. He was dragged out by Wizzy and I before our fine was tripled.

I was never a great fan of hockey, but it was Ross that convinced me to get involved. Eventually, in the second year, we found ourselves on tour in Amsterdam. At this point, Neil was sofa-surfing in our humble abode as he had either not planned ahead and sorted out a flat or did not do enough to secure a pass in the usual time – I forget which.

Thew Wendover brothers took me abroad and it promised to be a memorable occasion. All of us jumped back on the coach, once we hit France, but we were two men down. Ross and a chap called Roger were MIA. Despite protestations from our tour leader, I raced down the aisle, with Jamie Hamment, to find the two R’s. I eventually stumbled across a ring of giggling school exchange students and forced my way through to see what the commotion was about. I found the Captain lying on the floor, clutching onto another 24 Stella slurring his way through a lesson of the virtues and perils of 7am binge drinking. We eventually found Roger and returned them safely to the bus.

It was that same weekend that both Neil and Ross suffered from identical eye injuries. Neil got hit by a stray hockey ball, piercing his left eyebrow. Being an organised sort of fellow, he didn’t have any sort of medical insurance, so he went under the name of Ben Hawkes. He was eventually stitched up and returned to the party. Now, we all know Ross likes to throw himself into things. In this instance, it was a grand piano. So the family album was complete.

Sometime during the second year, Ross ran out of beer tokens. Without wishing to put his parents out, he secured a job at the pub across the road. We were the second closest house to the pub – a house that Ross and Joe chose.

 

The home of the deep fried sprout

We were also the closest house to Blockbuster videos. I lost the paper/scissor/stone and the account was put on my card. One of the rascals didn’t return ‘Wonder Boys’ and I ended up with a £106 fine and a £20 fine for a new DVD. A few years later, I was offered the chance to buy a DVD £3 for purchasing £30 worth of fuel. Wonderful! Except… the only DVD left was… you guessed it… Wonder Boys. I refused, seeing as I had funded the sequel.

It was a classic backstreet boozer. Drinks secured on the cheap, faulty wiring and all food deep-fried, including vegetables such as carrots and beans. He was the best barman you could ask for. You would order a double vodka and Red Bull and you would end up with a quadruple and more money that you started with. Best for the bank balance, perhaps not the health. He went on a few excursions with the bar team. Bigfoot, Scratchcard Pete, Catford Dave and Sambucca Simon.

It was this pub that hosted the Brookes hockey Christmas dinner in 2000. Ross was in charge of raffle prizes and had managed to secure a free kebab for the lucky ticket holder. Nobody came forward, so Ross gallantly took it upon himsef to use the prize a week or so later. To his detriment, I should add. Nikki was staying with us  at that point, so she had his room and Ross was on the sofa (vacated by Neil!). Apparently it took him two hours to drag himself up the stairs to seek help from Nikki. A rather unhelpful lot of housemates either told Nikki to get out or “Ross is always sick”. In my drunken stupour, I handed Nikki a letter from the John Radcliffe and she found a number to call. They both returned the next morning, Ross having spent the night hooked up to a morphine drip and sucking on a small wet sponge for some liquid.

 

On the advice of my legal team, there is no proof to

link the illness of Ross to this fine eating establishment

Not the first time Ross has ended up in the casualty ward. During his fleeting stay in Brighton, he became an integral member of the local rugby team. I got talked in to watching him play in Bognor. I went for a stroll at half time and returned with about five minutes gone. It was only a little while later that I realised Ross was missing – which didn’t surprise me as he went missing in the first half – if you know what I mean? Nowhere to be seen!

I spoke to someone on the touchline and was told that a centre back had been taken to hospital with a head injury. A mad panic later and I found myself bombing along the motorway at about 40 miles an hour in my Vauxhall Corsa. The only problem was, I forgot to ask which hospital. I eventually found him in the Chichester A&E. By jove, the smell. A stinging smell of overflowing incontinence pads stung the back of my throat and compromised my vision. When I was sure that he was going to make it through the night, I ventured down to the party we were supposed to attend in Devon. A quick visit the next day, at Lower Creedy, was in order. We were met by a busy and concerned looking Nita telling us not to make him laugh, so I thought it was wise that I didn’t say anything at all.

After he graduated, he did return on two occasions. The first being a fleeting visit to my new house (my Uni stay was ‘extended’) to see Adam, David and I. We ended up drinking the student union dry and, not for the first time, we managed to lose each other. The three of us returned to our house in Divinity Road and Ross was certifiably MIA. It was only a frantic knock that the door the next morning that the mystery of his disappearing act was resolved. He had managed to bag himself a space on the sofa, at the home of Scadge. What soon became apparent was that he awoke in the early hours and did not have a clue where he was. The next 15 minutes, in the early hours, was spent screaming “Where am I? WHERE AM I?”, followed by a vomiting episode and departing.

His second visit to Oxford was, when I had graduated (!!), was a birthday party for an old friend. A group of us were wandering along Cowley Road, the following morning, eyeing up some grub, when eagle eyed Baz spotted a rather strange chap wandering across the street, complete with a handgun down the back of his tracksuit bottoms. I told my comrades and we set off in pursuit. It just so happened that we saw a police car drive past and proceeded to flag him down.

He soon disembarked from the safe haven of his wheels and joined us in the pursuit. In advisably, he bellowed “STOP! Police!”. The assailant then pulled the gun out and put it to his head. Before tossing it to the floor and fleeing. The five of us made chase, Ross, Scraf, Me, David and the copper. The next stage is a little fuzzy as the adrenalin had kicked in and we had covered at least 10 metres, so I was a bit puffed. It just so happened that I had bought some new leather soled loafers, so I was suffering a friction problem. The copper his a collection of bags containing old kebabs, I was lagging behind and David was shadowing the gang, so it was left to Ross and Scraf to make a ‘citizens arrest’. Exciting times!

I’ve been honoured to see a few milestones of his. Although I did miss most of his 21st. I was playing cricket that day and by the time we arrived at the pub, he was crying at the bar and soon fell asleep, not to be woken.

My favourite, apart from today, was his ‘passing out’ at Sandhurst. For the record, I was the last to pass out. Only because I went on some reconnaissance mission to buy cigarettes and forgot how to get back. I ended up in some department store and had planned to hide, when closing came, and sleep on a sofa bed.

Ross showed early signs of leadership. He lead the Wendover clan from the front, namely because he refused to retire from his buggy until the age of five. It has since become clear that he was conserving energy for his latter day pursuits and keeping up with SJ.

 

The Wendover men (minus Nico) in reverse rank order

Before the Queen acquired his services, he ended up in Brighton. Ross will tell you that he found work that happened to be closer to me, but I think the actual story is that he wanted to move closer and found work in Brighton. Anyway, he excelled under the stewardship of Jon Orrell. Fitted into Brighton effortlessly. Perhaps something to do with the fact he has an uncanny knack of disarming people, other than the Taliban, or a greater collection of tight t-shirts than Gok Wan. After a joyous spell in Brighton, it soon became apparent that he needed a new challenge.

 

News filters through that Ross can hold his beer

 

The army came calling or perhaps he found them. It was more a case of ‘Your Country Deserves You’ as opposed to ‘Your Country Needs You’ – although they clearly did need him.

I was invited over to a very grand Minley Manor for a drinking session. One of the wedding guests mistook me for an army chap. I told Ross that and he instantly told me that I would not have passed the hearing test. I said “Pardon?”…Although it later came to pass that I could as you can see a light flashing when the sound buzzes. Not that Ross needed it. His ears might be small, but they are incredibly powerful. The next day, after the army/wedding session, he sent me and Wizzy off for a walk, whilst he was packing for an excursion… or whatever they are called. Being a lovely day, we decided to head to the nearest pub in Fleet. Ross hadn’t warned us that there were going to be live exercises all day and we eventually stumbled across a group of very well hidden armed men pointing guns at us. Intentional or unintentional… you decide…

I thought, at this stage, I should talk about the loves of Ross’ life. I met his first. A small dowdy French girl. They were together for quite some time, but she eventually got written off in Brighton, of all places. Another couple came and went, until he stumbled across the most beautiful and sleek looking Italian. I was in Bristol with them both and we garnered much attention, but I am positive they were not looking at me. It soon became apparent that she was expensive and high maintenance and Ross was keen to get rid. He even tried to palm her off on me, at a price. Another few came to pass, but he eventually settled for his and my favourite. He would talk about her incessantly to those that cared and didn’t. He had a great collection of photos that he would brandish about.

I finally got to meet her, in Scarborough of all places. I rocked around the corner and there she was. Bathed in sunshine. A shining aura. A radiant colour and the most impressive pair of headlamps I had ever seen… I’ve never seen a campervan quite like it.

 

Who needs a Merc when you can have a VW?

I don’t remember the first time I met SJ, but I do know it was one of her dinner parties. From start to finish, my glass was full. THE most impressive hostess I have ever come across and I am sure you will agree that she has done a pretty good job of today. With SJs careful planning, Ross’ brute strength and the load sweat and tears of the wedding minions, I would suggest that it has been pulled off.

My pre-wedding tasks were pretty minimal. I volunteered for the pebble dash and the petal collecting.

On the pebble front, I can tell you for free that it was not an easy task. In front of you, you will find a carefully handpicked stone to act as your place card. I should remind you, at this point, that they are not for throwing…. even if someone does say JEHOVAH. Anyway… I set about my task with great gusto. It soon became apparent that any decent, flat, smooth, rounded stone was luzzed in to the sea for skimming. At times, it was like looking for a pork chop in a Bar Mitzvah.

The petal collection was a little easier. Due to my current career path, I have access to a rose garden. Come 20 hundred hours, the park is deserted, so I set about my task to collect confetti. The drying proved a little problematic. The first batch moulded over. The microwaving didn’t work, but the grilling worked a treat. I even have enough left over to make some Pot Pourri, Darling!

Lifting, carrying, having Nikki on my shoulders, strawberry picking, Nico watching – is it my shift yet? Testing out my Spanglish on Noelia has been an absolute treat.

 

Aye caramba!

SJ would like me to apologise on her behalf for the delayed appearance at the actual service. One of the reasons why the organist was playing double speed and missed the exit from the church. To be frank, I didn’t notice that he had gone…

What can I say about the bridesmaids other than the fact that they were/and have been sensational since start to finish. I am sure you will agree that they look absolutely fabulous. Not in the Saunders/Lumley type ab fab, smoking, messy hair and swilling vodka, but the night is yet young.

 

The bridesmaids get into the swing of things

The last few days have been the best, THE very best. I’d like to thank the Allens and the Wendovers for their hostility. Never before have I felt so engulfed in… sorry, hospitality, never have I felt so engulfed in kindness, friendship, love and understanding. They are all pretty cool, even by my standards. I have met too many great people to mention everyone.

I can’t talk about the stag do, due to the stag vow of silence, but I can tell you that Brighton was not prepared to be hit by the current and ex-British Army caravan club. I shall never forget wandering out of the house to find a half naked Dale sucking on a Pot Noodle tub.

Thanks to Russ for picking up my waistcoat and his all round organisational skills. I was half expecting him to fly the rings in. Actually, in an effort to make myself indispensable and much to the protestations of Emily, I acquired possession of the wedding rings. on Friday. As a gentle reminder, I told Ross I have them… You should have seen his face… “YOU’VE got the rings?”. The mobile networks buzzed and alternative arrangements were made, I handed them over to Maria (Mrs Allen).

 

Bridesmaid Emily played a hands on role

Back to Ross and SJ. I have not and will not meet a cooler couple in all my days. I remember being shown a photo of Ross and SJ in their swimmies, before a wedding last year, and said “You’re going to have beautiful children”. It was met by a strangled guffaw by both of them, but it shall happen.

I guess everyone has a missing part and without wanting to sound too much like a “Love for Dummies” Book, they complete each other. I still have that missing part and I shall be around all evening. Perhaps in the bar, or back or here, or mulling about in the courtyard… come and say hello. SJ is an absolute diamond. A rare diamond at that and I curse my luck that Ross met her first, as obviously I would have been at the front of the queue, otherwise, obviously….

Ross means the world to me. I’ve been very lucky to gather a great deal of good friends. The last few years have been a bit crap, and without the support, kindness, understanding, friendship and generosity, I don’t know what I would have done. Thanks to Ross, I have started to feel myself again… sometimes twice.

No, seriously. He has been an absolute rock and I thank him for putting up with me. I did find it very difficult when he disappeared of to Afghan on HMSS. If you are in the same country, you feel that you can protect your friend/friends. He was out there dodging bullets and facing IEDs daily. Not that I would have been much help over there, but you know what I mean. I guess he is a bit of a hero, to me at least.

You are all looking keen to devour the next course, so I shall leave it at that and wish you good health over the next few hours and onwards.

Please be upstanding.

It is an honour and an utter privilege that I shall I ask you to raise your glasses for the one and only….brand spanking new, Captain and Mrs Wendover.

NB This shall be updated with news of the wedding and some photos once I have a moment.

Thanks for reading and sorry for rambling!

Vandalism in the Park

Inspired by an email I sent a very cool chick…

Last Saturday was a dull affair. The rain was pounding and all I had for company was a reliable Robin (she comes for some Weetabix), a few hardy dog walkers, some career drunks immune to the elements and a smartphone.

With-a-bix

I have made friends with a couple of homeless men. I don’t know their names, but one of them is the gentleman tramp. He is well dressed, well spoken and likes to talk politics, cricket and fine dining. The other is a Belarussian who constantly bemoans the weather of Britain and tells me of his plans to save up enough money to travel to Spain. Both exceptionally nice fellows whom have fallen on hard times. Park activities tend to die down after 7pm, so the remaining 1.5 hours is generally spent in the company of them on a bench, basking in the sunshine (where has that gone, by the way?).

A Water Feature

Somewhere… beyond the sea, somewhere waiting for me!

Twice this week, I’ve found myself in Newhaven. Not through the means of drunken debauchery and straying far from my home. My good friend Alex decided that I would be the perfect shipmate (incidentally, my smartphone did not recognise ‘shipmate’ and prompted me to write ‘pirate’ – fear not Alex!) to sand, seal and paint his beloved houseboat, before it retires to the south of France. Whilst much of the country were furiously tapping away at their keyboards, shouting down the phone or battling with office politics, I found myself on deck armed with a sander, heat gun and a cup of tea. Ship ahoy and all that.

Alex is hoping to have saved enough money for this one by 2071