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.
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
Feeling Re-Connected
Bobby Scott and Bob Russell penned their most famous song back in the 60s. They had it spot on. The road IS long.
Twenty five years after I made my stage debut, I finally fulfilled a life long ambition, of appearing in a film (I hope I don’t end up on the cutting floor!). Connected is the film. A wedding goer and a mourner was my dual role! I do know for a fact that only my shoulder appears in the final sequence. Probably a good thing that it was only my shoulder that appeared as I was sweating like Jonathon Ross at a BBC Trustees meeting. To be fair, I was not the only one. Everyone was suffering. There were about 40 of us cramped into a small corner of the hottest room in Hurstpierpoint College, all of us being dressed in black.
Snake on a Plain
Well, more like a grassy stretch of parkland, but the title would not be so catchy and would not align itself with that rather poor Hollywood blockbuster involving Samuel L. Jackson and Julianna Margulies.
’tis true. The unnamed park on the south coast of England was under attack from a slippery serpent. Perhaps set free by a local resident or hitched a ride with the European circus that had moved in for two weeks or arrived via the desecrated docks of an unnamed local seaport.
Sssssssssssseven poundsssssssss for a game of tennissssssssssss?
Ssssssssssssad… sorry, sadly, I was not working on that dramatic day, but a gardener told me how he bravely fought off the beast until help arrived. The Last of the Summer Wine gang managed to corner it armed with hoes, shovels, secateurs and a wheelbarrow. The animal police were summoned and the Texan Rat Snake was captured and sent off to Drusillas, a local zoo.
“Oh my god, we’re going to need that Annika bird to rescue us from this one”
“No, no, no. You mean that Strachan.”
“The little ginger one that used to manage Southampton?”
“No. You are thinking of Alan Ball”.
“Alan Ball? Didn’t he used to used to present that weird science programme?”
“Tomorrow’s World?”
“No, that was the one with a long haired chap and a guy with a lisp….”
“The Really Wild Show?”
Yes, without a shadow of doubt
Sadly, I haven’t faced that much drama in my fledgling career as a ticket salesman. I did have a slight confrontation with three men that looked a little confused. Camp looking Nazis would be the best description of them. I gave them the benefit of the doubt, as I knew they weren’t going to pay, so I offered them a cheaper student option. Needless to say, I was subjected to a barrage of obscenities. I won’t repeat what was uttered as I know my parents are avid readers (I hope!) of my blog. After a short stand off and some help from a couple of tennis players in the next door court, the Fourth Reich was no more and they frog-marched off.
Without wishing to sound too much like Michael Stipe (of REM fame)… When the day is long… it can drag a bit. I currently work 3.5 days a week. The whole day starts at 0930 and finishes at 2000 (2030 from next month). A long day. But I refuse to complain. The past 16 months or so have been a living hell. I lost track of the number of jobs I applied to. Eternally grateful that the local council decided to offer me work. Being a little deaf, well, a big deaf inhibits you from a large number of jobs. I guess the politically correct definition is ‘hard of hearing’, but I don’t like to be pigeon-holed, unlike Richard Gere, or was it a hamster?
Once it is docile, you then…
On a serious note, I’m just happy to be up and running again. There are only so many rejections one can take. Sure, it is not a career job and Planet Earth will not remember me with great fondness and hilarity, for selling tennis tickets, but it shall suffice for the time being. Receiving multiple emails telling me that I was not suitable, but not giving me a reason, ground me down in the end. A stalled and arduous interview was never enough to convince someone that I could be an asset to the team.
In fact, before I got this job, I had ONE (1) interview. The Olympics guaranteed to interview talented disabled people. Wow! I got accepted. Neither I nor they worked out my talent (I like to think leg-spin bowling), but apparently I needed more experience in facilities. I did not dare ask them what facilities was as I was applying to be a facilities manager. One of those weird and management friendly titles. I am sure I have heard “spillage controllers” being summoned to aisle 13 in a supermarket to mop up a full fat milk spillage.
“Whilst we appreciate that you have a number of decent qualifications. We feel that you are not right for the role”.
Gordon Bennett. I was applying for a filing role suitable for a 16 year old school leaver, I am not suggesting I can balance the books of this country and create world peace overnight.
Gordon Bennett, aparrently
“Our panel thought you were an excellent candidate, but we regret to inform you that we are not able to offer you an interview for this role. Due to the amount of applicants, we are unable to supply you with any feedback as to why you were unsuccessful in securing an interview”
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz wake me up when you grow some balls.
My London disability advisor was about as useful as a swearing tourettes symdrome sufferer taking a vow of silence as a trappist monk.
“From sunrise until moonlight, it is expected that you refrain from any form of verbal comm…”
“Pissflaps!”
Week in, week out, I told her I was unable to use a telephone. Every week, without fail, she would meet me with an expectant grin. “Oh Paul (please don’t call me that), I have unearthed some exciting jobs to apply for!” Excellent, again, without fail, each and every one required a “confident and friendly telephone manner”. Oh god, I told you last week that I can’t use… Which one of us is deaf..?
Ah! It’s late and I am rambling. I am sure the next instalment will be scintillating, but more importantly, jolly and interesting. Keep the faith!
One needs to keep some realism about the situation. There will always be plenty of people in a worse off position. (I hope!).
Without wishing to sound too much like Jerry Springer. Take care of yourselves… and each other.
Nothing to do with the bank balance, Jeremy.
Word of the Day: Boustrophedon – A back and forth pattern (I managed to avoid that phase, but it was touch and go)
Quote of the Day: “All things are difficult, before they are easy” – Thomas Fuller
Men are from Earth, Women (or should I say young girls) are into Murs.
I found myself, along with good friends Adam and Dido, in the Brighton Centre to watch Olly Murs’ much trumpeted arrival (if you read teeny mags and follow his website) to God’s own city. I must confess, I had to Google Murs when Dido kindly informed me that she had bought me a ticket.
For my sins, I do tend to watch the early rounds of X-factor and Britain’s Got Talent and various other freak shows. It is great fun watching a girl with more spare tyres than a Formula One pit lane and the musical harmony of a cockerel suffering from strangulation, convinced that they have the X-factor or the lovechild of Frank Spencer and Kathy Burke attempting to make some shapes on the dance floor. After they have been encouraged to give up the ghost, the show bores me.
We found ourselves in the midst of 2,000 plus young girls, ready to declare their undying love to Mr Murs. A sea of glittery lip gloss, a veritable ocean of “I ❤ OM” merchandise and a mountain of trainer bras. It was an experience and a half, I’ll tell you that.
I love Capitalists
whilst the vending machines were selling overpriced fizzy pop by the gallon, we made our way to the sparsely occupied bar and ordered ourselves some Dutch courage… and we could take them to our seats. Joy! We managed to find our way to our seats, armed with our alcoholic beverages, to find ourselves sandwiched between a troupe of young teenies, just before the lights dimmed.
First on the menu were The Kixx. Their brilliant play on the word ‘kicks’ was just about matched by their stage presence and obvious musical talent (or was that absence of musical talent?). The not so famous five soon made efforts to charm us with loooooong list of singles destined to collect dust in the struggling HMVs of this world. Time dragged and the life was beginning to be sucked out of me. Eventually the skinny fit jean quintet played their last and the bar beckoned once more. Autograph hunters were treated to a rugby scrum at the front, whilst the three of us attempted to regain our senses and I readjusted the volume of my hearing aids.
Hold the front page… Enter Wonderland into the fray. Sweet mother of all that is good and pure. Now we are talking. A newer and prettier version of Girls Aloud (pre-botox, eating disorders and relationship breakups). Aye carumba! If only I had a backstage pass… (Don’t even think about it!). Four Irish beauties and the wife (Jodi Albert) of the band founder thrown in for good measure. I won’t embellish any further on my thoughts of them. Adam and I crept down to the front to join the masses for an autograph, once they had finished.
Hellllllllloooooooooo
A tiny little girl (reminded me a bit of the youngest girl in Mrs Doubtfire) was being blocked off by the 12-somethings, so I “Hello Dear” and gallantly offered to have her programme signed. Sadly, they disappeared before I could capture a single autograph (and a brush of skin). I returned it to the sullen looking girl on the verge of tears. I felt terrible. If she had cried, I would have cried, but then I was on my third rum and coke at that stage.
I admire that honesty, Natalie, that’s a noble quality. Never lose that,
because it often disappears with age, or entering politics.
It wasn’t long before piercing screams soon drowned out the anticipating hubbub of the adoring fans. Thank goodness my delicate and damaged ears are subject to a volume control! The music faded as I watched these five lovelies prance around the stage. The Murs had landed. Not before we were reminded that we should only hold up our banners (no, we didn’t have any) when told to do so. Organised fun. Marvellous. The noise was cranked up and the piercing screams threatened to bring the house down. It wasn’t long before I sought solace of the crashing waves for a break from the noise and some fresh air. The chilling wind showed no mercy and I returned to find 2,000 odd people making heart shapes with their hands and the place was rocking. Everyone on their feet swaying, jumping up and down, shaking uncontrollably (less rum next time).
Thank you for another lovely evening, my trusty Captain friend
The show came to a close way after the bedtime hour, around 10 o;clock, and we retired back home with ringing ears and humming the tunes of one of his songs. He might have wowed a small portion of Brighton, but his star is fading, if chart positions are a good guide and he is cashing in before the last flicker.
A good time was had, but it was more about the company (Adam and Dido, not the jailbait).
Word of the Day: Apodyopsis – the act of mentally undressing someone (five in this instance)
Quote of the Day: “He who sings scares away his woes” – Cervantes
Parklife (Parklife)
A blurry (see what I did there?) 16 months of rejections, CV tampering/exagerating, scouring websites for unsuitable jobs and the usual spiel from caffeine addled recruitment agents, an unnamed city council decided I would be a suitable face of their prestigious position of… selling tickets for the tennis courts and bowling greens in one of their public parks (with a bit of gardening thrown in for good measure)! One of my responsibilities is to set up the bowling greens. It is a painstaking task of measuring various distances to stick in various pegs and markers, armed with a wooden mallet that has seen more worms than a pre-school nursery.
Fortune and glory it is not, but great trees grow from small acorns or at least, that is what I keep telling myself.
I shall not bore you with the individual price brackets of the various tennis tickets, but I there comes a time in the day, generally before Countdown has begun, that men and women of a certain age will take to the court. I have no qualms in asking a gentleman if he is past the age of 60, but my very old and very old fashioned headmaster informed me that one should never ask a lady the same question. Being a bit of a diplomat, it is somewhat troublesome – I have avoided asking if they are “60 years young”.
“Are you under 60, Madam?”
My day starts with stepping over a tramp whom has kindly taken to sleeping by the door of my office, desperately clutching a two-third empty bottle of Jack Daniels (him, not me). He pops his head out of his sleeping bag and I offer him a cup of coffee, which he duly accepts.
I then saunter off to see the gardeners and take instructions for the day, for when ticket sales are slow. The gardening team comprises of a rather odd collection of old men of different shapes and sizes. Walking into their hideout is akin (I would imagine) to walking into the green room on the set of Last of the Summer Wine. They are to be found chatting away about the state of the world and their various ailments, whilst rasping away at cups of tea. Waiting for their next shoot – a green shoot in this instance to water, care for and nurture. All of them look like they have been there since the giant great sycamore, in the middle of the park, was but a mere sapling.
“Weeding the rose bush today, right lads?”
Days like today leave me yearning for an office job, surrounded by svelte young women and… that’s about it. The rain moved in early doors. Not a tennis player or bowler for the first 8 hours of my shift. To be fair, the damp is bad news for the hips of the Octogenarians – no excuses for the tennis players! The park was abandoned, save for a few White Lightening addled, leathery skinned men and some kids skipping school. The same group of kids that set out to antagonise me by playing on one of the bowling greens.
Masquerading as an horticultural expert can be quite good fun. I have had plenty of people admiring my roses and asking questions about them. Ah yes. That one is of a Northern European genus. Sturdy usually, a hydrib of the Mongolian Rose but, sadly, highly susceptible to Mongoon’s Crank Disease etc.
Oh shit. That was weedkiller?
The unnamed park is soon to be a mecca for those of the gay and lesbian orientation. It plays host to many thousands of partygoers seeking out a jolly weekend on the coast. Brimming with feather boas and latex, I have heard. On that subject, my pavilion plays host to a couple of mating birds. They have nested in the rafters and I have been leaving seeds out for them.
The nesting birds met a sorry end
I can’t think of much more to write thus far other than there was a Texan Rat Snake on the loose, on my day off. I’ll tell you about that another time.
Keep the faith.
Baz
Word of the Day: Dendochronolgy – the art of tree ring dating
Quote of the Day: “A man does not climb a moutain without bringing some of it away with him, and leaving something of himself upon it” – Anon.
Ladies and Gentleman
If you have subscribed to my blog, it might be worthwhile clicking the URL under the title of the email e.g. http://wp.me/p1btHQ-2s
to see the blog on my website as opposed to just the text within the actual email. I shall remind you each time.
Best wishes.
Baron of Sussex
Dedication, that’s what you need
Sang the late, great Roy Castle.
I am not on course to break any athletic records, but I have made some tentative steps towards regaining my athletic physique that has been missing three times as long as the absence of the kayak enthusiast and disappearing act, Mr John Darwin. The Brighton branch of Esporta is the temporary gymnasium of choice and it has served me well, thus far.
I finally got back on the saddle of a bike, albeit an exercise bike, after a long absence. Probably spanning back to my jaunt to Bristol from London. I do enjoy cycling, but the particular bike I picked was positioned in front of a large TV showing the morning edition of ‘Jeremy Kyle’. Three participants of the show, looking much like the result of generations of inbreeding, were arguing about text flirting, drinking too much and the paternity of a little boy caught up in the middle of the whole debacle.
Somewhere along the lines after many foul mouthed tirades, goading from the presenter and a passage of multiple gesticulations, the paternity issue was resolved and they were sent packing to carry on with their miserable existence of swearing, drinking and texting.
I tried my hardest to pedal away from the heinous torture, but alas exercise bikes are not renown for their moveable capabilities and I was trapped with 5 minutes left of my exercise programme. My pulse was racing from both experiences before I decided to head off to the weights section.
I have never been a great fan of any of the weight sections I have ever come across. In a previous existence, I used to visit a gym near my parents house. More often than not, I managed to time my visit with NASA boys (National Anabolic Steroids Association) – I jest with the last bit. The sort of man that would spend much of the morning, having polished off an 18 egg omelette, counting how many protruding veins he had and carefully selecting the smallest pair of cycling shorts from his closet. The stench of protein shakes and ego polish normally sent me packing early doors.
I’ve never quite got to grips with the whole mirrored atmosphere either. It is not that I dislike looking at myself in the mirror, but I just don’t see the point of gazing, puppy eyed, at my sweaty efforts to lift 20kg weight above my head – but whatever floats your boat.
I beat a retreat and headed down to the pool. Supposedly the best exercise one can get, unless like me, you have trouble staying afloat and risk suffocation by filling your lungs with liquid. Thankfully, the pool is relatively shallow and I did my very best impression of a frog for 25 lengths or so.
The Sauna was the next port of call and gladly it was not rammed to the ceiling with Swedish bodybuilders and their frying pans. I did my best to wheeze my way through the 15 minutes of sweating before retiring for a much deserved spa.
The bubbles were working their magic and my mind begin to drift. Bliss. It was then that I was joined by a rather attractive bikini clad lady, who, how should I describe it? She entered the bubbling cauldron complete with artificially enlarged buoyancy aids and I am not talking about water-wings here. I wasn’t quite sure where to look (or perhaps I was?). Anyway, the bubbles ceased and I made my excuses and retired for a cold shower.
Thoroughly enjoyable and bound to become a habit.
Word of the Day: Colposinquanonia – Estimating a woman’s beauty based on her chest
Quote of the Day: “A bear, however hard he tries, grows tubby without exercise” – A A Milne
London 2012
Start the fans please! The Olympic games are around the corner. London 2012 is within a veritable hop, skip and a jump. I say London 2012, but that is not quite correct. Hadleigh Farm (nr Southend), Dorney Lake (Bucks), Lee Valley (Herts) and Weymouth (Dorset) also host a variety of events. However, that would be a bit of a mouthful, so we shall stick with the tag London 2012.
The sort of subtitle one would get on the TV screen, on one of those straight to the video shop shelves futuristic sci-fi movie filmed in the late 70s. Whilst we are on the subject of futuristic films, if they filmed Back to the Future today, they would be going way back to 1981… after I was born. Hmmmm… that makes me feel a little old.
Anyway, I have just received an email from the Olympic committee, inviting me to buy some tickets. Of course, it was not a personally hand crafted cyber invite, I assume I must have signed up to express my interest in various events, but I don’t remember doing so. Either way, they have got hold of my email address – perhaps in the same way as those viagra pushing salesmen.
Blast, too much text, I need a to put another relevant photo in, as I know my audience has a short attention span…
How very Matrix. You take the blue pill… there is not turning back or was it the red one?
The Olympics is very rarely out of the press at the moment. Whether it be funding issues, clocks stopping or political unrest. I do believe I read that Iran were threatening to boycott the games due to the logo *apparently* looking far too much like the word ‘zion’. If they do withdraw, they will join a short list of absentees. The Peoples Republic of Insomnia have withdrawn due to the lack of provision of Camomile tea and Whale music, the island of Microamnesia forgot to return their health and safety certificate, so they shall be banned from all sporting arenas in England, and the Former Soviet Peoples Republic of the Bulimic Peoples Front were not happy with catering and water closet facilities.
It all seems a bit complicated. I have to put myself forward to buy tickets of the events I want to see. Granted, that sounds simple. But I don’t want to have to pay £90 for a beach volleyball event when chances are I might have to watch shapely Speedo clad men prancing about in the sand for much of the afternoon, you can do that for free in various seaside resorts. But then if I opt for a cheaper ticket, I will have a lesser chance of attending. Same goes for gymnastics, but replace sand with a hardy rubber type surface.
Move along now. We don’t want one to become blind.
If I opt for a whole variety of events and get them all, then the bank manager is going to be knocking down my door. Decisions, decisions. I didn’t really pay a huge amount of attention to the ’88 games in Seoul. Although I do remember feeling a little upset that Linford Christie lost by a lunchbox to Carl Lewis in the final of the 100m.
Barcelona 1992 was the first games that I found myself glued to the TV (Thank God Birmingham didn’t win the bid!). Right from the very start with Freddie Mercury blasting out “BARCELONA!”. Needless to say, Great Britain didn’t do very well, but it did not deter me from watching the wall to wall coverage of the games.
The very finest moment of the games, in my humble opinion, was the sheer determination, guts and dedication of Derek Redmond to finish his last race of the games. He was on fire, having posted the quickest time in the first round. Derek had put a long series of injuries behind him (so we thought) and his form was highly promising. Sadly, it was not to be… I challenge thee to watch this next video without the hairs standing to attention on the back of your neck and a lump in the old throat.
It could not have been scripted any better. Nike received some priceless advertising with Mr Redmond Sr wearing a ‘Just Do It’ cap. Derek is now a motivational speaker. The Olympics is also a good opportunity to dust off the old game “Guess the Sport” – coming to a pub near you. Atlanta, Sydney, Athens and Beijing were watched religiously. Three of those messing up my body clock and slumber patterns.
I can’t wait. It should be a blast whether I get tickets or not. I shall be up there with a Union Flag soaking up the atmosphere. Too late to start saving up for a two bed flat and offering a room to a svelte Russian athletic goddess, so the flag waving will have to suffice.
I was not blessed with speed or brute strength, so I have to settle for a position as a spectator. I’d give my left arm to compete in the worlds finest sporting event, although I guess that would relegate me to the Paralympics. Ho hum.
Word of the Day: Testudinate – slow moving, like a Tortoise
Quote of the Day: “A lifetime of training for just ten seconds” – Jesse Owens
A Very Public Victory
A very public victory for all children who are or have been bullied and teased in the past.
Casey ‘the Destroyer’ Heynes and Richard Gale have become an overnight internet sensation. Master Gale did not bank on Master Heynes finally snapping and eventually snapping the ankle of Master Gale! The anger of years of torment had presumably been building up and Richard provide the spark to set the magnesium burning brightly.
Both the modern day junior Adonis and the little shrimp were suspended, but the sweet, sweet victory will last forever.
Bullying was not particularly rife at my secondary school (which shall remain nameless), but it did happen. By the time I joined in 1993, it was much scarcer than the previous decades – perhaps something to do with the introduction of ladies in the sixth form, creating a calmer aura.
In my year, Chris was on the receiving end of most pranks, gags, rude remarks and general nastiness. He was not particularly trendy, he had a questionably close friendship with Tris (Chris & Tris), he didn’t wash his hair and he had a penchant for farming. Little did we know that behind the closed door, he used to smoke out of his window and tapped into the phone line of our matron to download porn – perhaps he was just misunderstood all that time.
In safe hands
Chris and Tris used to disappear off to the farm to masturbate pigs (there is a proper term for that, but I dare not google it) and provide a nightwatch for gestating ewes. Poor old Chris had been packed off to boarding school with a 12 pack of y-fronts. One fine summers day, a pair were discovered with accompanying skidmarks and he never quite recovered from that. Neither did most of us in the dormitory, as invariably, they were slammed over your head if you did not keep your wits about you. Things gradually improve once you are no longer in the 3rd form as you would have 12 – 16 ‘newmen’ under your control.
In our house, 3rd and 4th formers shared a 24 man dormitory. The 3rd form were expected to be up in the dorm at 9.30 for a 9.45 appointment with the duvet and the 4th form were in at 9.45, lights off at 10.00.
The Dorm – post modernisation
During our induction, a visit two weeks before we started the new term, a 5th former told us of the legendary ‘Running of the Gauntlet’. It all sounded rather exciting. Well, I can tell you now that it was terrifying! The lower 6th former, in charge of keeping us all in order, would remove himself temporarily and the ‘fun and games’ would begin.
We didn’t have curtains at that stage, as our Housemaster was an early riser and believed in being woken at the crack of Dawn (although I believe his wife was called Lynne). So you could just about make out silhouettes of people with the help of the glowing moon. With very little notice, your would be relieved of your duvet and it would be temporarily housed at the end of the dorm. No choice was given, but to retrieve it. The only snag was that you had to battle your way through eleven (Cantonese Gary never took part) 4th formers armed with pillows (stuffed with boots and coat hangers). Character building, so they say.
Sadly not
This would continue for the whole year, as well as an unprompted bundle or two with a pile of bodies crushing our delicate little frames. Various other pranks involved hiding your whole bed if you went to the toilet in the middle of the night or covering the door handle with shower gel to ensure a difficult re-entry (that last part is not as dubious as it sounds, believe me!). One of my classmates, Hiram Ip, had a 4th former climb into bed with him. He didn’t move through sheer fright!
Our house had some particularly strict 6th formers and we used to find ourselves on the wrong end of justice which generally resulted in a 6am two mile run in the rain. Of course, the tradition continued the following year, banishing the memories and giving one an air of superiority.
I was ‘adopted’ by Jasraj Ghaleigh, a hockey genius Sikh. I was ordered to make his a cup of tea with 1.5 sugars to be served at 7.33 every morning for what seem like an age. His alarm would go off at 7.40 and it would be at drinking temperature by the time he woke from his slumber. The aim of the dangerous mission was to not wake him. Sometimes I succeeded, sometimes I failed, which would result in a dead arm!
The year passed and we all survived intact. Our newmen arrived, fresh faced and naive. We then set about repeating the whole process. One particular newman, I shall call him Matt Nash as that was his name, seemed to slip into the place left by Chris. His father was a stockbroker, which we cunningly changed to ‘jockstrap maker’ which seemed to upset him.
I’m definitely not googling jockstrap again
It wasn’t too bad sharing a dorm with 23 other people. You don’t really notice a lack of privacy. However, during the winter of ’93, Fields House was struck down by a noro-virus. The origin of the virus would be from a pint glass of sick that was placed on the dormitory mantlepiece and each and everyone of us would spend about a week vomiting, all through out the day and the night. During the night, one person would wake and vomit, setting off a whole chain reaction. I can still smell it. Not good.
After two years, we ended up with out own ‘pitts’. A small room with a desk, bed and cupboard. We were growing up. Independence and privacy at last, but there was a small longing to be back in the dorm with all your friends. Higher up the food chain and the more boys we had under our control to run errands or generally intimidate (within reason!).
Word of the Day: callipygean – well shaped buttocks
Quote of the Day: “People who snore always fall asleep first.” – anon
Space and the Supermoon
Yesterday, we were treated to a ‘Supermoon’. The closest the moon has been to planet earth for 18 years. A mere 221,565 miles (356,575 kilometers) away. At the press of a button, I can reveal what you might have missed last night.
Whoops! Wrong button.
Moons, meteors, space and what-have-you have always fascinated me. Space is not that far away. Technically, one can enter space by travelling 100km. That is the equivalent of Brighton to Redhill and back, and I would imagine the scenery is a lot more pleasant!
On the subject of space, it reminded me of my second year bedroom at University. Think of the smallest possible room imaginable and stick up a party wall dividing it into two bedrooms. You could swing a cat in it, but you would have to be prepared for a swift visit to the local veterinary surgery, a hefty bill and a sad goodbye to the faithful moggy. There was enough room for a cupboard, a single bed and a minute desk.
There was literally a square metre of floorspace which invariably got covered with a small pile of dirty linen and some discarded beer cans. There was no room for more than two people in the bedroom at one time and you needed to bend like a professional ballerina to exit the room in one piece and any false move would recreate a scene from the Nutcracker, if you didn’t keep a keen eye on the door-handle.
I made a fatal mistake of demanding the big bedroom to house my rather archaic PC, whereas the others were talking about needing a double bed for the occasional ‘visitor’. Why did I pipe up first?
Championship Manager Headquarters
One plus was that it literally took less than 5 seconds to hoover the floor – not that I ever did. My good friend Ross had the other half of my room and suffered from a year long snorefest – not my conversation (I hope), but the noise and vibration penetrating the tracing paper like dividing wall.
However poor my bedroom was, I did like that house. It was extremely well placed and we had access to multiple pubs within spitting distance, a bakery round the corner, a kebab shop within sniffing distance – grilled meat ‘aromas’ were not always welcome first thing in the morning – and Blockbuster videos. What more could a student want?
In actual fact, we were the closest property to Blockbusters and I believe we were the house that collected the most fines. Sadly, I lost the paper-scissor-stone and the account was linked to my credit card, leaving me to face the brunt of the vicious capitalistic system. There was one particular film called ‘The Wonder Boys’ that racked up an obscene £104 worth of fines before a final charge of £20 to replace the errant DVD. No-one claimed responsibility, so I was left with the charge.
A expensive film
Years later, I was offered the chance to buy a DVD for £2 as I had spent over £20 on petrol – Brilliant, I thought! Only to cast my eye on the selection and the only disc available was…you guessed it. Out of principle I declined the offer. I was not going to put another penny towards that blasted film, seeing as I personally funded a sequel.
My next bedroom was a step in the right direction. It wasn’t the smallest for a change! Unfortunately, I was on the ground floor and facing the road. Divinity Road was a bit of a mecca for students and invariably there would always be someone you knew that would pass the house. I generally always sleep with my window slightly open to allow a circulation of air (I shall not tell you my current address) and more often than not, I got someone clambering in my window at silly o’clock, if they had forgotten their keys or fancied visiting one of the residents.
No such luck
The worst of that was when my good friend Adam decided to pay us a 3 am visit, the morning of an important exam. Most of the students had finished by then and drunk themselves silly in Fuzzy Duck’s. I was awoken by a silhouette of a beer swilling gentleman trying to gain access to the house. I think he was stuck and after an exchange of some blue language he managed to free himself and scurried upstairs. I think I passed the exam in the end, but…
I had a rather delightful abode in Southsea. My friend Nick and I managed to snag a place on the seafront, halfway between his work place to the west and my work place to the east. Wood flooring through out, high ceilings and a delightful decking out the back to sun ourselves whilst we watched Euro 2000 (a TV rigged up outdoors). It made living in Southsea and Portsmouth almost bearable.
My flatmate, I’ll call him Nick Smith for the sake of this blog (as that is what his name was) found the house, so he bagged the big bedroom with a built in wardrobe. The built in wardrobe was then turned into a laboratory to cultivate, pick and smoke homegrown marijuana. Foil covered plaster board was shipped in, halogen lamps were purchased, various lotions and potions were collected and the seeds were sown. It was quite an impressive sight and the plants began to grow.
I was charged with looking after them for a week, after Nick upped sticks and went to join his father for a holiday in Spain. I was gifted a rather complicated list of things to do, including cutting back dead plants, ensuring there was enough light and checking the pH of the water.
Operation Southsea
One fine day, I headed towards my local shop for some supplies and had to carefully dodge a chap sprinting along with 48 cans of Carling in his arms. Only when I saw the police searching the shop later that day did it occur to me that he had just lifted them. I thought he was just thirsty and in a rush. I made myself known to the police and they thanked me and asked for my address so that they could come round and take a statement… Oh f*ck!
Chances are they would not have carried out a search of my premises, but there were various smoking devices, loose rizzla papers, actual marijuana floating about and a prolonged odour of hashish lingering in the air. I stuttered and stumbled, claiming that I had forgotten my address as I had only just moved here and gave them my email address. Thankfully, they bought it (not the weed, I should hasten to add).
That is all for now…
Word of the Day: Runcation – the act of weeding.
Quote of the Day: “Space isn’t remote at all. It’s only half an hours drive away if your car could go straight upwards.” – Anon.
Congratulations to…
…Guangdong Enterprise Ltd.
They have come up with a truly unique product to celebrate to incumbant nuptials of Prince William and Miss Kate Middleton.
It is safe to say that they will be the only ones selling this product.
http://www.guandongenterprisesltd.com/
Is that Adam on the left (it is not Dylan Hartley)?
Word of the Day: Welding – a sparkling union between two inanimate objects
Quote of the Day: A psychiatrist asks a lot of expensive questions your wife asks for nothing – Joey Adams
Say Cheese
A friend asked me whether I have ever been gassed at the dentist and it reminded me of the recent story of the Shrewsbury dentist, whom has been struck of for his flatulent tendencies (amongst other things) got me thinking. Certainly not laughing gas in his case.
Say chthhehhshsdf
I’ve had four dentists in my thirty years. All of them have been family friends. Don’t ask me why my parents know so many dentists.
The first one was my favourite. I’m a sucker for free stuff and he used to give me disclosing tablets. I assume they were free as I never paid for them, but at the grand old age of 8, you wouldn’t be expected to. A disclosing tablet is a little red pill (that sounds very Matrix) that you chew and the dye clings to your tartar. One result of that is your saliva turns a crimson red. I used to pretend that I was a Dracula and would spit out the ‘blood’. Of course, any decent Dracula would never waste blood, but that is neither here nor there.
For some reason, I was switched to Dentist #2. He was the father of a good friend, so I did not complain. My sister convinced me that his waiting room window was a one way glazier construction so I used to while away the hours waving at passers by. Apparently it wasn’t, when an old lady came in to the surgery and complained about my obscene gestures. You live and learn. Never trust your elders!
I’m not the first and I won’t be the
last to be caught out in public
The final appointment for dentist #2 was a mouth guard mould for my rugby endeavours. That was my first and last experience of deep throat. I have a fragile palate at the best of times, but being drowned in some sort of toxic tasting residue left me seeking dentist #3.
Dentist #3 is a stunt double of Mr Bean, but thankfully not so error prone, yet. I was invited to have my first X-ray, the morning after my school leavers ball. Despite the schools best attempts to stop us from overindulging in vino, they failed miserably. Needless to say, I was extremely hungover (and drunk) for my 830 appointment the next day. I was ushered into a padded room and told to ready myself for the x-ray. Apparently I was supposed to place my chin on the mechanism. Years and years of being told to take a bite took preference and I managed to get my whole mouth around the chin rest – I ended up vomiting a small amount, before the dental nurse came to my rescue and informed me that I should place my chin on it (after she had wiped it clean).
I ended up breaking a table lamp after that. I think the Dentist was pleased that he wouldn’t see me for another six months.
I used to watch the Osbornes and one of the funniest things I have ever seen was Ozzy trying to rinse his mouth out by pouring the solution into his eye.
My great friend Ross once informed me that he was always gassed, every visit, when he went to the dentist and felt as though he was waving his legs in the air. I’ve no idea whether that particular dentist has been struck off, but Ross appears to have a healthy set of teeth. Perversely, I quite enjoy having an injection. It is quite fun when you try and smile. Your top lip is in a world of it’s own. Similar to David Beckham when he tries to say a word that has more than one syllable.
My latest dentist was in the year below me at Prep School. Thankfully, I was quite a gentle chap in those days and his drilling, scraping and hammering is not some sort of retribution, still hurts mind.
My folks attended a dinner party and the discussion, invariably, focused on dentists (they know four, after all!). The general discussion was as to what the dentist wore. There was talk of magnified glasses, face masks, head torches and clogs, before my mother exclaimed that “my dentist doesn’t wear anything!”, followed up with “I can never hold a conversation as he has his equipment in my mouth”. Thankfully, I never experienced that and presumably he is no longer a family dentist… or friend.
Whatever their faults, you can’t put a price on a smile.
Word of the Day: Start everday with a smile and get it over with – WC Fields
Quote of the Day: fleer – to mock; to jeer; to make faces in contempt
Love to Shop or Shop to Love?
Asda has just launched their very own interent dating site. I kid you not.
I don’t tend to shop at Asda, but it is conveniently placed on the way back from the gym, so it is a port of call for essentials. I did see one girl that I would befinitely take up the dairy aisle.
It is found here – Asda Dating – if you don’t believe me. The subtitle is ‘compare baskets’. I set about comparing baskets and it turned out that all of us had the same one. I don’t think there is a single supermarket that offers a variation in baskets, yet, but you never know. These corporate monstrosities are full of surprises.
The dating site, in itself, would appear to be free. But if you want to go one step further, you can spend 10p and gain yourself a ‘bag for life’.
There are bound to be supermarkets following suit. I can just see Sainsbury’s inviting customers to date, obviously they will go with their marketing slogan and encourage you to date more than one lucky customer – taste the difference is their corporate caption after all.
Not advisable after just one date
Tesco give the nation a boost. Every little helps has suddenly attracted a new meaning to that synonymous phrase and brings hope to many men across the country. The reward card could be vital to those sexually deprived. Spend £20 and bag yourself a classy lady that has not purchased Turkey Twizzlers within the last month and/or spends over £5 on single bottle of wine.
Pete Tong – Cousin of Bill?
One night stands at One Stop and students at Costcutter – I’m not quite sure why it is called costcutter – Every store I have been into seems to charge a kings ransom for a simple pot of houmous or a packet of biltong.
I’ve never really felt the urge to hang around supermarkets. The lighting attacks my precious cerebal makeup and I can’t quite get to grips with the fluctuations in temperatures. One minute you are standing by a spit roast and sweating like a fat kid in a sweet shop, the next minute you are in a frozen aisle and desperately shouting a muted “Jack…Jaaack” or whoever you might be shopping with.
Quote of the Day: Always remember this. A kiss will never miss and after many kisses a miss becomes a misses – John Lennon
Word of the Day: Limerance – The initial state of falling in love
Any Tool is a Weapon if you Hold it Right
This blog entry is inspired by the latest, in a long line, of misdemeanours from Englands finest left-back, Mr Ashley Cole.
Note: Two references to Ashley Cole in the title – Tool and Weapon, I thank you.
The loveable left-back hit the headlines after shooting an intern with an air rifle. Not the first time he has emptied his load in the direction of a young man?
This photo has been halved for the sake of the children
Maybe he deserves the benefit of the doubt. He has recently lost his Spice Girl or whatever she was and, presumably, has been wiling away the hours shooting tin cans at the bottom of his garden. Seeing as many of the Chelsea squad left education at the age of 8 (yes, Premier League clubs sign 8 year olds), perhaps Ancelloti decided to organise a ‘show and tell’ session, which happened to end in disastrous fashion.
I was trying to think of a profession that might turn a blind eye to shooting and wounding an intern. I can’t quite get to grips with the whole idea of taking an air rifle to the training ground (one with a sight attachment) and then waving his weapon around in the changing room (er…).
So far I am stumped. I know I would have faced the immediate sack and prosecution if I had turned up to work with a knuckle-duster and smacked the PA across the face. That’s a given, shirley?
Working along the line with the title ‘Any Tool is a Weapon if you Hold it Right’ – what weapons do we, as a nation, take to work?
A window cleaner is armed with a squeegee, which could be classed as a weapon of mist destruction.
Now I’ve thought more on this subject, my art teacher was blessed with a rather impressive chest, certainly a weapon of mass distraction. Sadly, as we had a normal teacher/student relationship, they were never a weapon of mass satisfaction. Besides which, she was dating a member of the Levellers, so a bit out of my league!
A gardener will always have a bottle of weedkiller somewhere, a weapon of moss destruction and a fisherman will have a large net, a weapon of bass destruction. Not forgetting to mention the mathmetician, armed with an abacus, a weapon of maths subtraction.
My elderly geography teacher was insistant that some tribes in remote parts of the Amazon used 50 ft blowpipes. We pointing out that you could attach a blade to the end and stab the target, but he was having none of it, neglecting to mention that you would need lungs larger than those of Brian Blessed to shoot the dart.
Anyway, sceptics aside, I decided to manufacture one and took it to my appointment this morning. I was running late, so I broke into a swift jog. Got the end caught in a gap of the pavement and cleared the top of the job centre. Sergei Bubka, eat your heart out.
I’ve never had much time for ‘Cashley’, partly because he seems to be an absolute prune and partly because he claimed, in his autobiography, that he almost crashed his car when his agent informed him that Arsenal were only offering ‘£55k a week’.
The student in question, may have hit the jackpot by being at the wrong end of the pellet. I would imagine he will not have to worry about an overdraft or repaying his student loan. It would be nice to think that he would go for a prosecution and for the CPS to throw the book at Ashley. The legal book and not his eponymous autobiography (auto is the loosest sense) that managed to shift a few thousand copies.
He claimed he didn’t realise it was loaded.
If there was any sort of poetic justice, he would have misfired and hit John Terry in the crotch, but alas it was not to be.
Quote of the Day: Bullets cannot be recalled. They cannot be uninvented. But they can be taken out of the gun – Martin Amis
Word of the Day: aristarch – a severe critic
Without Ice Cream…
…there would be darkness and chaos.
I love it. Rum and Raisin, Banoffee, Vanilla, Strawberry and so on. You name it and I’ll eat it. I have always thought that there is one ice cream that I draw the line at (coffee flavour), but now there are certainly two!
A restaurant in Covent Garden believe they have found a niche in the market and have devised a new recipe to adorn their sweet trolley. It goes by the name of Baby Gaga and it is made, exclusively, from breast milk (rusk included). Frozen ‘bitty’. Dear god…
Mothers have been invited to express their milk, subject to health checks, and are paid £15 for every 10 ounces produced.
One lady, Mrs Hiley (Hiley – not Hilly), has spoken to various news outlets and described it as a ‘recession beater’ and went on to say “What’s the harm in using my assets for a bit of extra cash?”. Hmmm…
The icy lactation of mother dish will set you back £14, so presumably just a recession beater for the proprieter of the establishment and the mother.
The only flavour thus far is Madagascan vanilla pods and zesty lemon (zesty, not chesty). But I am sure there is scope to expand on that. ‘Titti Frutti’ and ‘Raspberry Nipple’ immediatly spring to my since damaged mind.
If you ever find yourself in such an establishment. Be careful to check the small print or ask for the ingredients. Better yet, skip dessert and go straight for an espresso as opposed to the expressed pud.
Steer clear of it, I implore you. Basil knows breast… I mean best.
Advance warning for those at work – A great picture of a tit coming up…
Sorry, that was meant to say ‘a picture of a Great Tit coming up’ and I knew you would look anyway.
Back to my initial reaction. I screamed “Milk, yeurgh!” within the confines of my cranium and it immediatly reminded me of that rather wonderful, timeless advert from the 1980s.
I’m not sure Ian Rush would advocate milk in this instance and playing for Accrington Stanley would not be worth the shame, self-loathing and dent in the wallet.
I shan’t keep you.
Quote of the Day: “I am thankful for laughter, except when milk comes out of my nose” – Woody Allen
Word of the Day: abligurition – excessive spending on food and drink
Silence is Not Always Golden 