|
BOB JONES LIVE
- ON - LINE
|
MY WRITING
PAGE - you are very welcome.
Here are some
extracts from my columns in the Hertfordshire
Mercury’s: 'Keeping up with Jones' & Our Time magazine. They are copyright Bob Harding-Jones 2008 &
cannot be reproduced without permission.
Just a little explanation:
Hertfordshire is a county bordering
I'm based in Hertford which is the
slightly sleepy, but historic county town. So, at times, my column can be
slightly parochial.
It's meant to be entertainment. Read
on:
Where am I coming from?
I'm being asked all the time: Do I deal with serious social
issues, pull people's plonkers, or take the Michael?
Am I a satirist or humorist? Do I play safe or take a risk? Am I
middle-of-the-road or on-the-edge? Tongue-in-cheek or in-your-face? Do I
entertain or am I a bane? The answer is: I wish I knew. Can't a guy have a good
time without all these interruptions? So read on . . .
Hopalongabob Evensomemore
Last time I extolled
the virtues and dexterity of crutches, and how I became a hop-along expert
after fracturing my leg. But as the hospital doctor advised me on the discharge
day following my final plaster cast removal: ‘Continue with two crutches for
two days, one crutch for five days - then you are on your own, no more
crutches’. Steady on doc! I wasn’t as fast a healer as he predicted I’m sorry
to say. Fracture mending nicely but a foot like a blown-up rubber glove. And as
we in the queue waiting in the corridor of the weekly fracture clinic say to
each other each time we meet: ‘One step at a time hoppy’.
But let’s go back a few
weeks to my first visits to the Fracture Clinic. Just like a caterpillar,
shedding a skin – or plaster – is essential it seems. The initial plaster is
slapped on with great dexterity but removing it for the latest model requires
some heavy equipment . . .
Enter the indomitable ladies
of the fracture clinic. They are in charge. ‘Lay back on the bed’ they say, and
you obediently do. Then quick on the draw with their Black and Decker with its
circular saw attachment on the end whirring round at several thousand revs per
minute, it’s a stick-up. My initial plaster was from foot to groin and my
white-coated operative cheerfully commenced at my foot and progressed with a
straight groove upwards, ever upwards. She passed my knee and continued to make
excellent progress; then probably sensing that I was getting rather tense,
reassured me, purring: ‘It’s OK, it won’t hurt a bit’. I had my eyes tight shut
and the sweat was beginning to drip down my forehead. I was reflecting on another
movie: that scene in one of the James Bond films where 007 was
in a similar predicament. (OK, so in James’s case it was a laser beam, not a
saw.) ( . . . And OK, James wasn’t in the QE2 Hospital Fracture Clinic.) I put
on a brave face however and she was right – it didn’t hurt a bit. On my
subsequent visits I had complete faith in their ability and meekly did as I was
told. No sweat.
One last story about
crutches before I discard them completely: pedestrians and drivers are very
courteous when they see someone struggling on crutches I found. So much so that
while I was waiting on the pavement outside my house for a lift in a friend’s
car, securely supported by my crutches, another motorist stopped sharply in the
road and beckoned me safely across. I attempted to explain that I was OK and was
waiting for a friend. My crutch gesticulations were obviously misinterpreted and
he became even more insistent that I cross. So much so that I did, thanking him
profusely. When he had safely disappeared up the road in a cloud of wellbeing,
I nimbly hopped back again hoping he hadn’t spotted me in his mirror.
Break a Leg Bob – You’re Showbiz!
Keeping up with Jones will not be a problem for most people
at the moment as I have broken my leg. I did not break my own leg of course,
that was accomplished with great velocity by my erstwhile cuddly bearded collie
dog Alfie. When you’re walking your off-lead dog over the fields for a sniff
and a scamper you don’t expect it to return as a misguided missile at warp
factor ten, scoring a direct hit on your leg, instantly breaking it with a loud
crunch, rendering you a helpless heap in the middle of a muddy field in urgent
need of help; and, in my case . . .
without a mobile phone because I had forgotten to pop it into my
dog-walking trousers.
I was (thankfully) on a footpath and within
range of civilisation so no need to panic. The thought of shouting for help was
a little demeaning I thought, but after ten minutes of muddy solitude - other
than my uninjured tail-wagging but impatient for a continuation of his walkies, doggy - I was screaming my head off. No help
arrived for thirty painfully long lung–thrusting minutes; then, at last, a dog
walker appeared with his dog and bone (many thanks for walking my way sir). Our
two dogs decided that this would be a great time to demonstrate how to protect
their respective masters with a snarling display of dog to dog combat as I
dialled 999 on my rescuer’s mobile and summoned an ambulance.
Calling for an ambulance was an
embarrassment. I am an ambulance paramedic when not in my alter ego writer/poet
mode. I made four of my colleagues extremely muddy as they splinted my leg,
carried me off the field on a board and gave me pain relief. Were they
professional? Very. Did they pull my leg? Yes, but
thankfully just the uninjured one.
A health professional in distress was
greeted at QE2 Casualty by staff he knows well. They looked worried after
hearing about his sorry plight and replied in touching unison: ‘Oh dear Bob.
But how’s your poor dog?’ Many readers will have had first hand experiences of
leg fractures I realise, and so have I, but never as a patient. A great time
was had by all as I was x-rayed and my leg pulled literally and metaphorically
in preparation for a back-slab plaster. As I was happily under the influence of
morphine I joined in the fun too.
Later, on Codicote
Ward awaiting the decision of the orthopaedic team, a cheerful and sympathetic
nurse with a wicked sense of humour shared a story with me, commencing
proceedings with a cheeky little wink. He said that my experiences of being
stranded injured, with no means of communication and far from assistance
reminded him of a man who had a similar incident. Not in green and pleasant
Hertfordshire, this man was on a small boat on a river in
But against all the odds our man
survived until the next day and was rescued. I didn’t find out how he was
rescued because my nurse and his wicked sense of humour were called away before
the climax of his tale. However, I think I can guess the ending that he was
building up to. How was he rescued? It had to be by a passing dog walker with
his dog and bone. This rendered my
adventure mild by comparison and I took an immediate turn for the better. It
was very effective therapy.
Conserve
the Plastic Carrier Bag
A
conservation policy is needed for the once ubiquitous supermarket plastic
carrier bag. They are becoming an endangered species. Collectors and speculators
are probably hoarding the different styles and logos in expectation of making a
killing. Museums are on the lookout and I have heard from a reliable source at
the
My
Sporting Injury
Just
like
Now
I know what it’s like. Metatarsals can be very painful. My days of football
practice in the kitchen were abruptly halted by my father when I was about
8-years old with a well-aimed clip round my ear, so as you will have probably
guessed – mine was not a football injury. My injury: is a scourge to anybody
who contributes as I do, to the leisure and sports industry. My injury: was a
beer-can injury. An unopened can of my favourite brew rolled off the work top.
I emulated
Happily,
just like my footballing mates Stevie, Wayne and
Michael, I recovered my fitness amazingly quickly and was able to resume my
chosen career of couch-potatoing in time to enjoy my
meal, accompanied by a replacement unshaken can of best brew in pain-free
leisure. What a recovery. What an athlete!
My
Spare Tyre
I
suffered a nearly-flat rear tyre - I could see a nail imbedded in it - so I
drove gingerly to my friendly tyre service. They like to build up the suspense
don’t they. They lock you in a little room with a
monosyllabic coffee machine for company, and then escort you to your vehicle
for their expert diagnosis. After my wheel had been inspected I was informed by
the tyre fitter that I would need a new tyre – no surprise there. After nearly fainting at the cost of an
identical replacement tyre he gave me several options, right down to their
special budget tyre. We met about halfway. ‘That’ll be £100 – fully fitted’. I’m so glad that I
decided to have my wheel ‘fully’
fitted – it’s given me so much confidence driving around in safety. I recommend
that everyone has their tyres ‘fully’
fitted; well worth that little bit extra I’m sure.
Mistaken
Identidy
It’s
a great blackberry season this year. Walking the fields with my dog I’ve seen
numerous pickers keenly harvesting the hedgerows, carrying home bags bulging
with lovely plump blackberries. I was
following just such a person – she had a dog too - carrying her bag of bulging
blackberries. ‘They’ll taste great with some apples in a pie’ I was tempted to
jest. I’m so relieved that I didn’t – her bag was full of dog pooh.
Metre
Raid
I
am sure that I’m not the only person who received a letter to state that their
electricity metre was to be replaced – by the latest hi-tech model no doubt. I
have no complaint about this as my metre is surely destined for public viewing
in its own cabinet at the
About
a month ago one of their fitters did catch me in – or on my way out to be
precise. He was most put out that I wouldn’t change my plans to make his day. I
told him that I would be delighted to arrange a convenient time for me – it’s called
an ‘appointment’ I suggested. He didn’t know what an ‘appointment’ was – a word
not in general use by my electricity company’s technicians it seems. My
suggestion was the wrong suggestion: he said it was impossible for him to plan
his day ahead like that – he’d try again sometime, whenever, occasionally,
maybe.
A second man called this week. I asked why he
couldn’t give me some notice as my metre is hidden by two tons of assorted
bric-a-brac and an iron bedstead, but I could prepare space in advance - if I
knew in advance.
‘Not
possible’ he said.
‘Can
I phone your boss?’ I said
‘No’
he said.
‘Why?’
I said
‘I
don’t have any contact numbers’ he said.
‘Dear
oh dear’ I said.
‘Bye’
he said.
‘This
sort of thing used to go on 20-years ago, it’s 2007’ I
said.
‘Is
it?’ He said.
I
noticed that following our polite spat he tried his luck on several other
houses nearby without success and roared off in his van to no doubt annoy some
more households elsewhere. What a complete and utter waste of time!
There
is something radically wrong here. If I were to guess, these chaps cannot be
paid by the number of metres they fit or they would organise themselves, or be
organised. So somebody must be paying for these expensive procrastinations.
Could it be us?
Diary
of a Sixty-Something
The
honour of being selected as a Glastonbury Festival poet was fantastic. But
having to camp in a tiny tent squeezed into a minute soggy space in a crowded
sodden field with the rain belting vertically down and the water table bubbling
vertically up; attempting a balancing act on a wobbly pneumatic mattress/come
sledge half-zipped out of a twisted lumpy sleeping bag not aptly named – all to
the accompaniment of the thump-thump-thump of all-night music and shriek-shriek-shriek
of all-night revellers, wasn’t.
The
pleasure of performing my stuff to appreciative audiences was also fantastic
–even if I needed to keep my wellies on. But strip
washing at a standpipe, negotiating latrines designed for Roman Legionnaires
not southern softies like me - and sharing the duration of the festival with a
pair of friendly underpants, wasn’t.
If
you saw the television reports, I can confirm that the conditions really were that
bad. The camaraderie of performers and punters however was marvellous. It must
have been a bit like this during the Blitz. I didn’t witness any anger or
aggression. Ample lager, pear cider and chain-smoking herbal rollups seemed to
provide the energy and tranquillity required for seventy two hours with little
or no sleep. If you cared to gaze into people’s eyes, they would gaze back at
you with either pinpoint or dilated pupils, sometimes one of each.
My
compatriot poets were a fine friendly bunch, spanning all ages and genres. Most
were used to performing at gigs all over the
Most
readers will know of the famous headline music acts that appeared there this
year, but I chose to update myself on the poetry front, spending many happy
hours listening to the talent on offer. So I’m now an updated poet, have learnt
what MySpace is and now am the proud owner of my own site. I’m currently
networking to my new poet friends, been offered a gig in York and received two
internet offers from young ladies to venture to their naughty websites with my
credit card details. I don’t think that they can be poets, so I won’t.
The
good news: took lots of great pics. The bad news:
lost my camera somewhere in the
Most
embarrassing moment: Tripping over the power cable when the Glastonbury Poetry
Slam competition was in full flow, cutting off all power, light, sound and
leaving the contestants speechless – what a plonker I
was! Unsung hero: one of our band rescued a
semi-conscious man with his head and shoulders through a lavatory aperture
contemplating a fate worse than death 6-feet below.
I
returned to Hertfordshire completely shattered, suffering sleep depredation,
eardrums that pounded a rock ‘n’ roll beat for three more days and smelling
worse than the dog.
Would
I do it again? Of course I would!
This
is an old article of mine, but: Hey, it’s Festival Time again!
My
A First Night to Remember
(And no knickers!)
I’m
a lucky man. My life seems to consist of a long list of minor catastrophes and
trivial misadventures. They queue up, and emerge one at a time; highlighting my
otherwise dull and uneventful little life. I’m a lucky man: they give me some
excellent material to write about. That’s fine with me - just as long as no-one
gets hurt and it’s not illegal.
Take
my
My
pleasant little dream of a successful week packed with audience adulation was
interrupted by hectic thumping on the flat door and distressed screams of a
female voice. It took a few moments for me to realise where I was; that I was
no-longer in a dream; that someone was desperate for help; and that I, in no
uncertain terms, was being asked to deliver it.
I
grabbed some jeans and very cautiously opened my door. The door of the flat
opposite was open and the screaming woman was visible inside; a small child was
by her side and there was a loud noise from within that I couldn’t identify. I
concluded that this was a medical emergency. I felt confident that I could
help.
She
saw that I had responded, and screamed ‘Help me! Help me!’ in a foreign accent.
(I later found out she was Palestinian). As I slowly approached, she shrieked
information at me in hysterical and incomprehensible English.
As
I entered, the cause of the emergency dawned on me. This was not a medical
emergency at all. The woman had a burst pipe. Cardiopulmonary resuscitation I
can manage. Plumbing is a problem. I gulped: my wife assesses my DIY attempts
with derision, and breaks into manic hilarity if I go anywhere near a pipe with
a spanner. This was some burst too. She was filling bucket after bucket from a
loudly hissing pipe and tipping them into her bath. Water was cascading through
her floorboards and I feared for the ceiling of the flat below. I pattered to
and fro in little wet circles, trying to kick start my brain.
I
phoned 24-hour emergency telephone numbers and was answered by pedantic
operators with a check list. Unfortunately I had difficulty getting past
question one: the woman’s name. I tried very hard to interpret what it might
be. It contained many consonants and was hyphenated by gushes of water. They
said they’d ring back. I looked for the mains valve. It was at ceiling-level
12-feet high. There was no ladder. I squelched downstairs to the flat below. A
lady in a nightdress emerged with a ladder and brought it upstairs. She started
to climb the steps, then decided against it. ‘No
knickers’ she said. I ascended the steps.
During
all this, a smiling drunk had been lurching up and down the stairs, buzzing on
doors. No-one answered. He went to the main door and pressed all the buzzers
alternately for half-an-hour. No-one answered. I told him, that if he
continued, he’d wake everyone up. The irony was lost on him. The Palestinian
lady spoke sharply to him. He left immediately. This was as surreal a situation
as I’ve ever experienced. I succeeded in turning off the mains. We all cheered.
I’m now a hero in
All
this, and my Festival week had only just begun . . .
Fed up with British Railways?
Why not fly to the
I
have often berated our rail networks: Hertford East or North - it makes little
difference. Shabby, window and upholstery-stained litter-strewn carriages with
lager cans rolling to and fro and a noisy unruly
clientele to share your journey. This combination is no enticement to
patronise, so if at all possible and contrary to modern energy-saving etiquette
I travel by car where I do not need to avoid eye contact with my fellow passengers
or listen to the unimaginative and repetitive medley of foul language.
Bearing
this in mind I chose to sample train travel American style, Niagara to
Our
train was the first for several days due to a derailment. This derailment was
of American proportions too: a half mile of inflammable cargoes catching fire
and exploding. We were the first on the re-laid track and witnessed a huge
tangle of twisted rails, carriage carcasses and the upended train - all removed
into a significant acreage of chard forest. Thirty minutes later we ground to a
halt and were told by a moustachioed guard straight out of a Wild West movie
set that the freight train in front had broken down: ‘It ain’t
a movin’!’
There was no option but to gingerly reverse for twenty miles to transfer
to the other track - at about the same speed and distance as our Hertford East
to Liverpool Street ‘Express’. Finally reaching
Watching TV programmes you hate
Due
to visiting or being overruled, have you ever watched a television programme
that you have never watched before and furthermore vehemently announced to the
world that you never would watch ever? And when you settle down to watch this
hated programme, has a feeling of muted pleasure ensued? Or is it just me?
Conversely, my wife hates Woody Allen films – they never get passed the opening
title. I’ve never watched one - ever.
One historic day I muted that it would be nice to watch one before I
died. I selected the channel in time for the title: ‘No, not that one’ she
said, ‘I’ve seen it’.
Little Boxes
It’s advisable to retain receipts
and boxes – just in case. You never know, your goods may be faulty or break
down sometime. But with the receipt and the box you should be able to get the
item replaced, repaired or your money back. Also there are puzzling leads,
plugs, compact discs and just-in-case instructions to be kept safe - or placed
in oblivion in a drawer until the end of time. But how long should you keep
these boxes? One year, two years, forever? And how much house space should be
allocated? One shed, one cupboard, one room, the entire loft? Boxes, by their
very nature, pile up.
Ordinary Bloke’s Column 2007 (Bob’s Blog)
You
probably won’t have heard of me. I’m an ordinary chap, fellow, guy, geezer, bloke. You can call me what you like – it depends if you were
born with a silver spoon in your mouth or received a pair of industrial gloves
and a plumber’s wrench as a christening present. My name isn’t household, so you aren’t going to read this because I’m a
celebrity. The best that I can hope for is that you will persevere out of
curiosity. Consequently I’d better get on with it and throw in some witty
one-liners before I’m wrapping the fish and chips or double clicked to the next
blog.
Drugs,
wife swapping, swinging sex parties and stories about the rich and famous to
make your eyes water . . . sorry, it’s nothing like this at all in our house.
My first wife is still with me after 40 years of a DIY-less marriage. If I
aspire to erecting a shelf, it doubles as a slide and anything temporarily
placed there gravitates to the left before plunging to the floor. If I hammer a
picture hook in the wall, the approximate area will be perforated with holes
like a dart player, throwing his arrows left-handed and blindfolded - and
speckled by a selection of snapped-off picture hooks. The photo of the dog will
always be 3-inches higher or lower than intended - and 3-inches to the left. So
no DIY tips either. We do not boast about our children’s university
achievements: they didn’t go; they spurned university due to inheriting their
father’s academic lethargy. And I won’t be chanting about my wheeler-dealer
kids being well on their way to their 2nd million. They’re happy and normal.
We’ve a large hairy dog that makes me wheeze, two kittens who play dirt-box
roulette and a deceased goldfish. We’ve a garden in a state of overgrown
confusion, a mortgage well on the way to maturity when I’m 75 and hp on a car the size of the national debt
- I’m looking forward to it being mine after 4-years easy payments so I can
trade it in to cover the first instalment of my next.
So
there you have it. I’m an ordinary bloke with an ordinary family with plenty to
complain about . . . see you next time.
Dear Santa: please gimme a
parking space for Christmas
There’s
street near to me that, although suffering an unfavourable cars to houses ratio
like everywhere else, manages to cope. When a motorist is unable to park
outside his or her house and has to find an available gap further up the road,
it’s not the end of the world so to speak. There are a few notable exceptions,
but in the main there is a bit of give and take all round, a little community
spirit – call it what you will. Everybody eventually manages to park their
cars. Possibly not in a favoured location, but always well within a day’s march
of the front door. It’s been this way since time since god proclaimed that a
man should take him a wife, they should beget children, live in family harmony
and at their maturity, each girl child should bring
forth a sporty car complete with girlie accessories and each boy child a big
white van.
That
was until recently. Pleasant but pernickety policemen had organised a raid of
this East Herts street.
Years of neighbourly getting-on-together was in danger of plummeting into a
range-war for parking spaces. Overnight, the resplendent smile of
neighbourliness was replaced with the grimace of gritted teeth and
parking-related stress syndrome.
Whether
these policemen were indeed pernickety or reluctantly responding to a complaint
from an unknown busybody not following the local custom is unclear. It is said
that at least one fine was issued to an errant motorist: he parked they said –
‘illegally’. Cars straddling pavements to allow busses to get through per the
time-honoured custom were instructed to no-longer straddle pavements and
forthwith park per 1932 AA guidelines, six inches from the curb. The fact that
busses could no-longer get through the restricted road width was considered
irrelevant. Prior to this purge, vehicles were indeed blocking the pavement on
one side of the road, but as local custom dictated, there was an unimpeded
pavement on the other side of the road for pedestrians, toddlers in buggies and
dog walkers. Since legal intervention, pedestrians had a choice of footpaths,
but zigzagging busses, lorries and emergency vehicles
were in danger of harvesting wing mirrors, an accumulation of vehicular
paintwork and an occasional withering
Most
motorists in this street do not implement the unwritten householders’ 11th
Commandment: ‘The space in the road outside your house
is yours: let no-one else park there’. Most non-car owners accept that their
houses will enjoy an uninterrupted view of parked cars. This street had a
relaxed attitude that had stood the test of time, an acceptable compromise. But
who was to blame for destroying the equilibrium: police, pedestrians or
parkers? This street was transformed into an unhappy street, no sign of joy
apparent except for the whistling builders and odd-jobbers doing their rounds;
quoting for digging-out and concreting front gardens, dropping-down curbs and
designing underground car parks.
So,
how do you manage parking in your street?
Halloween
It’s the annual invasion of the dreaded Americanised Halloween trick or treaters and their entourage of adult enforcers. Ok, so I’m a sarcastic old grump, but I have to get my kicks where I can.
Halloween:
a cauldron’s mix of mini-witches, hats, broomsticks, greasepaint and
intimidation systematically trawled our streets: our little satanic angels were
at it again, predatory droves of them scouring every housing estate near you.
In the past I have tried leaving my house and creeping back on all fours under
the cover of darkness. A feeble ploy, they must have been hovering in midair
somewhere and swooped to knock on my door as soon as I clicked it shut. My
turning all the lights off, hiding behind the settee and letting my dogs bark
until they were hoarse routine didn’t work either. Their management and
security section have grown wise to it and sent them back every twenty minutes
to break my resistance without mercy.
This
year however I was spared all Trick & Treaters.
My garden path had been freshly concreted that very day and the system of
wooden and metal barriers was duly constructed to bar all human and animal life
from planting even one tiny footprint or paw. This worked wonders. Not one
attempt on my front door. Marvellous, the ready-mix is already on order for
next year.
Back to school – me too!
Sixth Form Choice
I spoke with sixth formers about
comedy and language, and went armed to their college with my special Bob Jones
name-dropping list of ‘with it’ comedians I’ve met. Eddie Izzard might only
have said ‘Hello’ to me before he was famous, but in my book that’s a
conversation, and this might have been the turning point in Eddie’s career –
you never know. The sixth formers would be impressed - wouldn’t they?
I asked who their favourite
comics were, my list at the ready in preparation to strike off the names, one
by one. One student contemplated for a moment, then caught me completely off
guard with ‘Charlie Drake’. Then another followed up with ‘Tommy Cooper!’
I
hesitated. ‘I used to watch them on the Tele’ I said, screwing up my list into
a paper ball.
MY SUMMER
‘We’re all going on a summer holiday!’
Cliff Richard coined this immortal line in 1962. We don’t all go on holiday at
the same time of course, and rarely by bus, and hardly ever with Cliff, unless
we’re the Blaire family; but all the same, quite a few of us are currently
conspicuous by our absence. Firstly, our schoolchildren are on their summer
break – hooray! This is much to the delight of schoolteachers who are now on
general release and have several weeks to de-stress, go to therapy, the pub, or
just jump up and down, babbling over with joy. Perhaps you are a teacher,
reading this in the waiting room of your friendly shrink. Or, perhaps you are
not, but have observed them being bundled into police vans at closing time,
loudly proclaiming:
But where, oh where, have all our
schoolchildren gone? There aren’t many of them visible during the daytime.
Perhaps they are operating a sort of reverse curfew: in during the day – out at
night. Or, more precisely, in bed during the day, on the tiles at night, but I
could be wrong. Other than our newly-liberated teachers our pavements are
strangely quiet, and our roads almost deserted. It’s extremely tempting to
drive around in circles just for the pleasure of it and continue contributing
to global warming without the usual pressures of other motorists.
Hertford Tourist Office take note: our
summer holiday calm might be a blessing in disguise. Tourists could be
encouraged into Mercury Country for activity holidays and
simultaneously improve the aesthetic quality of our towns. Summer events could
be organised such as the Great
Supermarket Trolley Repatriation Race when each competitor drags a trolley
from the canal or river and races at acute angles back to whence it came. Also,
Sweep a Street, Veto a Vomit and Pursue the Pooch Pooh competitions
would prove enormously popular and be contested with enthusiastic vigour I am
sure. Additionally: a ‘Solve the Hertfordshire Highways Maize Conundrum’ where
tourists jump in their cars and attempt to drive through Hertford to Ware
without hesitation, repetition or deviation would be a challenge to the holiday
adventurer. Our Highways Department would join in the fun and organise as many
simultaneous road closures and diversions as possible. Luckily they already
possess vast experience of this. First Prize: A Day’s Fun Filling in Potholes.
And on our return from our holidays to
the Costa Packet, we’d all have a much, much nicer place to live – including
our schoolteachers.
IT’S FOOTBALL – BLOODY WORLD CUP FOOTBALL
‘It’s football, bloody football on the tele - again! I can’t stand bloody football! I can’t stand
it! It’s interfering with my life. It’s going on and on . . . and on and on . .
. and on! When will it ever end?’ This quote isn’t mine readers, I love foota and am saturating myself with World Cup coverage in
front of my television set whenever I can. It’s Alfie my dog’s thought bubble
as he stares mournfully from the garden through the patio window at me,
transfixed, agape, watching football in front of the box. Alfie is wondering
what possible human catastrophe or disaster could be happening in the world to
cause his daily walks to be delayed, curtailed, foreshortened; or conducted
with so much impatience that he now has to suffer the daily indignity of being
dragged by the neck past his favourite sniffs and leg-cocking pit stops so that
his master can return home in time to turn that ‘*****’ foota
back on the tele – again! Alfie cannot comprehend how
anything in this world could be as important as his walk,
or why the other dogs on their walks are being unceremoniously hauled passed
him without so much as the customary reciprocal wet nose do-se-do and lick of
the goolies. There’s just no fun in dogs walks any
more.
‘Football rules during the World Cup -
Ok!’ This isn’t another quote from my dog dear reader, it’s my thought bubble as my wife and daughter’s daily ration of
television soaps are reorganized and even cancelled. Horray!
I say, it’s about time I asserted my rightful machismo front row seat in front
of the box once more. Television schedulers: I toast you with English passion
from the depths of my sofa with my traditional can of Danish lager in the one
hand and salute you with my
‘It’s just not fair: delayed, curtailed,
foreshortened, reorganized and even cancelled – that’s what they are.’ No it’s
not my dog again, or me; it’s my wife and daughter bitterly complaining about
their stupid irrelevant soaps as I stretch out on the sofa in my footie trance
ignoring them completely save for a dismissive wave while they take their
rightful positions, relegated to the dining room to do some knitting and sew on
a few buttons.
World Cup Football has given me an
amazing new power and supremacy that I never knew I had. So there’s life in the
old slouch yet. But how long can I keep this up? Well, I’m hoping that I can
make it right through to the World Cup Final. Game on!
Old vs. Young: and the
winner is . . .
(From Our Time magazine: Spring
edition)
As time goes by our mental faculties are
occasionally challenged by the younger generation. I personally treat these
challenges as enjoyable little tests to keep me on my metal. They’ve never been
a problem – I’m a wise old bird, or to be more precise, a shrewd,
deep-thinking, prime-of-life sexpot. (But maybe I’m biased.)
The following story relates, when for
the first time in my life, I doubted my mental competence. My fears proved
completely unfounded however, an unlikely brain-teasing challenge between
generations bringing tears of devilish joy to my eyes.
I was travelling by train from Hertford
to St Ives,
On the return journey a made a mental
note where I’d left my case and reinforced it with the location - as a marker -
of a tiny lady with a booming voice and five disorderly travel bags. As the
train approached
At Paddington I smugly collected my case
and filed up the platform, only to be overtaken by the even sweatier young man;
pulling his case with one hand and his rather bad tempered girlfriend with the
other. At the barrier he was urgently enquiring about trains back to
The Boat People of Hertfordshire
Have
you seen the huge new
I
have taken quite an interest in the history of boat people lately. This was
fired by reading a book by one of my favourite authors: Sheila Stewart,
entitled Ramlin Rose The Boatwoman’s Story (Oxford University Press). She traced the
descendents of Oxfordshire boat people who gladly contributed family anecdotes
and memories. Sheila weaved their reminiscences into the fabulous story that is
Ramlin Rose. I have empathy with the subjects
that she chooses for her books and this was also a delightful read. It is a
composite of the lives of the itinerant and mainly illiterate boat people whose
narrow-boat cargoes preceded and supplemented the railway and road transport
system of today. Goods of all typed were moved by narrow-boats all over the
country, skippered by families who lived, loved and reared their families on
them. Sheila has again chosen a poorly documented subject and rescued its
memory for posterity in another hugely entertaining book - an intriguing social
history and gripping yarn rolled into one magical package. Her boat people
mainly travelled the
The
folk who live or holiday on the narrow-boats nowadays are literate and lead a
life of relaxation and leisure, but is there an undocumented history of
Hertfordshire boat people plying their trade, waiting to be uncovered? Ware and
Hertford have a long tradition steeped in the brewing industry and boat people
must have frequented our canal and river systems in the first half of the
twentieth century and before that. If any readers have memories or can
contribute any information about the boat people of Hertfordshire, I’d be
delighted to hear from you.
I Recycled for Jesus
By the time that you read this, Twelfth
Night will have passed, your twelve drummers will have drummed their last, your
Christmas decorations will have been taken down and you will have screwed up
and crumpled the remnants into a large pile of black bags for rubbish
collection. Not me, I strove for a recycled Christmas this year. Waste not want
not. And my motto: Recycle for Jesus
- and I’m sure Jesus approved. I did my bit to save the Planet, and it all
started in the nearest place that I have to Heaven - my loft.
My loft is the place where my unwanted
things accumulate. My loft is a boom to hoarders like myself. It consists of
boxes labelled ‘XMAS DECS’, boxes of toys going back to the Neolithic period
when my kiddies were smaller, poorer and slower witted than me. It consists of
surplus chairs that are only needed at Christmas and New Year when relatives
swarm around our Festive table. It consists of boxes of books that I’ve
promised myself to read but forgotten where I’ve put them. And it consists of
mysterious bundles of I know not what – all unjustifiably labelled ‘junk’ by my
wife. Car Boot sales have tempted, but I have always taken the easy route up
the rickety staircase to Hoarding Heaven and dumped my annual surplus where the
Sun don’t shine.
So this year I decided to utilise my
bulging storeroom in the sky and reduce its contents before the ceilings of my
upstairs rooms sagged under their cumulative weight – and save the Planet. So
if you are a close friend or a relative, I hope that you were not offended to
receive from me a dusty but once loved item of bric-a-brac for Christmas
wrapped up in a dog-eared sheet of wallpaper circa 1970 – it was for the good
of mankind.
The
following are jottings written down in my journal recording for posterity my
pre-Christmas day of loft exploration:
10.00 am.
I have just returned from an exploratory
mission through the hatch to my loft. I am a little cold, but elated. Don’t
bother taking your little ones to see the latest Disney classic: The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the
Witch and the Wardrobe, my attic is even more wondrous and amazing; and
tickets to view will be marginally cheaper too.
1.00 pm.
I have now retrieved and sifted through
several boxes of Christmas decorations and spent an enjoyable few hours
reassembling our 100-piece Christmas tree that more aptly ought to have been
labelled ‘100-Piece Xmas Monkey Puzzle Tree (Rather wobbly. Two bits
missing.)’. No problem, the bald patch can face the wall. ‘Never throw away
your Xmas lights: even if some of the bulbs don’t work, you can always cannibalise
them and mix and match.’ What idiot said that? You never can of course, no two
sets are compatible, but if a few bulbs don’t light up – who will realise, or
care.
3.00 pm.
No shelf, hook or bare surface in the
house is safe. Our Christmas tree fairy is somewhat bedraggled and looks like
she’s just returned from an all-night party. Cuddly toys, candles, silver
stars, baubles compete for attention and our accumulation of ornamental Father
Christmases smile down at us in chronological order.
4.00 pm.
I’ve just found a bag bulging with party
poppers; part of a cheapo job lot no doubt and no guarantee. I wonder if they
will still pop?
5.00pm
All done! It’s time to relax. The tree
lights are glimmering and the freebee ‘jingle bells’ CD from the newspaper is
jangling. And what’s more, this year, the Joneses are looking forward to a
merry Christmas and a happy New Year without wasting the World’s diminishing
resources.
Postscript: So there you have it. Most of the lights worked; most
of the poppers popped; I indeed recycled for Jesus. There’s now a large pile of
black bags waiting at the top of our stairs to be returned to our loft for next
Christmas. I hope God is pleased.
·
My wife and I both think that we are always right – what’s wrong with that?
For my part I don’t like to admit that I am ever wrong and my wife is ever
right. My tactics are to firstly insist loudly and indignantly that I am right.
Then, if she persists that she is
right, stubbornly ignore the possibility. Then, if circumstances prove that she
is right, and there are witnesses,
and if there is no other possible course of action but to admit the she is indeed right, I finally, through gritted
teeth, deny that that she was. My wife, for her part, knows that she is always right – and that’s that!
Under the Influence
(Excerpt from Our
Time Column)
Have you ever been under the influence? I’m sure that all of us
have, even the soberest teetotaller. But I’m not talking alcohol here, I’m
talking about the influence that other people have on us: maybe because of the
esteem we hold them in, maybe because we would like to be a little like them,
or maybe because of their celebrity status, hoping some of it will rub off on
us.
I have heroes, Stephen Fry is one. His mastery of the English
language and in-depth knowledge of literature makes me green with envy. I could
listen to his wonderful articulation for hours, and then spend several more
hours thumbing through the dictionaries and reference books looking up the
quotes and words that I hadn’t recognised or didn’t understand – brilliant!
During a recent interview Stephen was asked what car he owned. ‘A London taxi’
was the unlikely reply, then he continued to wax lyrical about how versatile
they were and how any luggage of any size or shape could be accommodated with
ease inside. Before I realised what was happening, I found myself thumbing
through the used car ads searching for second-hand
Fashion is a little like that. It can be originated by those
catwalk models who strut their stuff exhibiting two nipples behind a net
curtain while wearing six inches of cotton supporting one strategic postage
stamp. But do we really want our own ladies to emulate these models? (Letters
from readers welcome - don’t forget the photos!)
Why should I have to share a Breakdown with my
Computer?
If
I was the sort of bloke to suffer a nervous breakdown, it would probably be
triggered when I have to phone my computer helpline. I was talked into insuring
my laptop for a period of three years; and with only a few months to go on my
contract I am finally getting my money back. The latest problem is that it’s
suffered a serious hardware attack, so they have arranged for a carrier to
collect and transport it post haste to their Computer Intensive Care Unit. Very
efficient it all sounds, but experience tells me not to hold my breath. When it
was recalled for its first laptop lobotomy a few months ago, the National
carrier failed miserably to achieve the Computer company’s own set standards,
not arriving on the appointed day, or the next. They eventually arrived on the
third day at 6.00 pm, just as I was gnawing the leg of my computer desk and
making wailing noises.
I
have spent an hour on the phone this morning attempting to obtain confirmation
that the local carrier depot will indeed collect today. They haven’t received
any instructions they say. After another hour on the phone my computer bods
said, ‘Oh yes they have’ and: ‘They’ve confirmed it too!’ ‘No we haven’t’ said
the carriers. Eventually I spoke to someone with some common sense who was able
to speak unaided without the aid of her script. She told me that they would
send special priority instructions for the carriers to collect today, without
fail – after all, I am the customer. I wonder which day they will arrive:
today, tomorrow or the next? Furthermore she has given me a super special
reference number to get me out of trouble. If only life could be that simple .
. .
The Beatles: almost three
It’s amazing: my Hertfordshire neighbour turned down Brian
Epstein’s invitation to be the Beatles drummer, replacing Pete Best, so Brian
recruited Ringo Starr instead. It’s true! The rest,
as they say, is history. So instead of the fab four
Liverpool lads, it might have been the fab three
And what have Tom Jones, Van
Morrison, Englebert Humperdinck, The Kinks, Petula Clarke, Joe Brown, Marty Wilde, George Martin, Mike D’Abo and scores of other top names in the music business
got in common? And what legends, now in pop heaven looking peacefully down from
their melodic clouds, share this common denominator? Well, Brian Epstein, as
I’ve already mentioned, does. And Dusty Springfield does. And Billy Fury does.
But what pop icon would probably wish to deny ever having any connection
whatsoever with our mystery man?
Do you have someone famous as
a near neighbour? I have: he’s very famous but hardly anyone has heard of him.
He is Bobby Graham, that’s who. Bobby Graham is my mystery man. And who on
earth is Bobby Graham many of you will quite rightly ask? However, if you asked any of the
aforementioned famous artistes face to face, or perhaps through a medium, they
would be delighted to tell you all about him. Bobby Graham - my near neighbour
- is regarded as probably the greatest British drummer ever – that’s all! Don’t
be modest now Bobby – you are the greatest, countless professionals share this
opinion. Bobby has been featured on more hit records than any individual
artiste or group in the
The music industry knows
Bobby well but to the general public he remains anonymous, except for me and a
growing unofficial appreciation society. Until now that is. This unassuming man
now has his biography as a session man published - written by ‘rock ‘n’ roll
barrister’ Patrick Harrington: it’s unsurprisingly titled The Session
But who was it that would
probably wish to deny ever having any connection with our mystery man? Dave Clark, that’s who! Fabulous drummer Dave
Clark, wasn’t he? No he wasn’t, he mimed; he was a fabulous mimer,
that’s all – Bobby Graham was the fabulous drummer we all stamped our feet to
while slamming that distinctive beat on all Dave’s hit records. Session
musicians were at it everywhere at that time. They played on some of the great
hits while the sexy groups combed their hair, posed for the photographers,
picked up all the girls and went to music and singing lessons on the quiet.
Session musicians ‘ghosted’ for many a pop band on records and this was an
accepted fact in this phase of the development of popular music.
Read all about the larger
than life characters in the music business of the swinging sixties. Read about
how it really was it in his great book . . . and don’t forget the CD that goes
with it, all available via the Internet of course. I however popped round to
see Bobby personally, have a chat, buy one of each, and get them autographed.
Bobby’s my near neighbour – and now he’s my friend too.
Bobby has recently decided to
retire professionally, but might occasionally put a mean band together to play
his passion – jazz. If you ever get the opportunity to hear him live, take it .
. . he’s fab!
The Session Man ( The
Story of the
By Patrick Harrington
& Bobby Graham
Broom House Publishing
£6.99 ISBN 0 9549142-0-1
The Session Man CD by
The Bobby Graham Band, Catalogue No: BHR 0001
More information with
Pay Pal purchasing facilities: http://www.thesessionman.co.uk
Our Time Column
Set in my ways? Who, me?
Getting
set in your ways? Me too. Once we find an easy and economical method in doing
things, or a comfortable life style, or a fixed routine, it’s all too easy to
relax and settle down into it. Once that suitable mix is found, we allow it to
set. And that’s that. There’s no need to experiment any more . . . is there?
Let’s
take a few examples shall we? ‘As comfy as an old pair of slippers/old
pullover/ old pair of underpants.’ Actually your slippers may well be comfy, but
they are also unstylish and require a risk assessment before you trip over your
own pompom. Your pullover is stretched beyond measure and now sags to your
knees with your hands reaching its padded elbows. And your underpants could
possibly cause a disease outbreak of pandemic proportion. You may well be a
happy chappie, but beware the set-in-your-ways trap,
it takes the excitement out of life, makes us predictable and dare I say it,
boring. It doesn’t matter a fig what other people think, I know, but if you
start thinking yourself as boring, maybe it’s time you shook yourself out of
it.
Do
you stick with the same old habits and rituals? Eat the same meals at the same
time on the same day each week? Watch the same television programmes? Always
choose the same meal from the same restaurant? Read the same newspapers. Make
love dangling from the same boring old chandelier? If so, give change a try: leave half an hour
earlier and drive an alternative route, choke the remote and select a different
TV channel, and go to another restaurant with a complicated menu and order
something you cannot pronounce without dribbling; and why not try reading the Daily Obituary - it’s a hoot! And,
finally, what’s wrong with the missionary position anyway?
My
electrician son has the right idea. As a teenager his bedroom was bedecked with
huge glossy girlie posters on all his walls and cheeky young ladies grinned
invitingly down from his ceiling. They had been posing there for years. He was
getting set in his ways. And as he was in a steady relationship with his
girlfriend, he took the big decision to rip them all down and move on. He has
replaced vital statistics with electrical formulae. His bedroom is now bedecked
with posters with hieroglyphics such as:
RESISTIVITY
AR < > PL
E.g.
R = 
(Whatever
that means)
I’ve decided to move on too. I’m changing my ways
before my wife tells me I’m boring and my friends fall asleep before I can finish
a sentence. I still watch the telly on Saturday nights, but now when the
National Lottery numbers are called out, I decline to join in the thunderous
applause with the studio audience - even if number thirty seven has featured
one hundred and forty two times before and deserves it. I’ve also taken to
reading in bed, and am finding the Screwfix catalogue absolutely riveting. Set in my ways? Me?
Not any more. And (I can hear you ask) what about the lovemaking? . . . Answer: mind your own business!
Our
Time column
Haircut
Sir?
What does every young male child have to
suffer at periodic intervals, continues throughout his life and gives him a
clip around his ear every single time?
Haircuts of course! I go to my barber’s
at regular intervals. And when I do, each of my visits takes a little less of
his time than the last. I don’t get a discount for this either. After years of
tidying up my mop of unruly hair as a loss leader, my barber is now gathering
in the profits that he richly deserves and has been patiently waiting for; and
my follicles, by reason of their reduced numbers and feeble resistance, offer
less and less of a challenge.
Haircut wise, things have changed quite
a bit over the years. As a child I winced with pain as razor-sharp hair
trimmings trickled down the back of my neck and stabbed me in the back. As if
this was enough to bear, I also had to perch on an embarrassing wooden board,
praying for my freedom, with my mum or dad sitting behind me to ensure that I didn’t
make a break for it and escape. As a young man, I ogled swim-suited babes in
the then very saucy Titbits magazine whilst waiting my turn. And after the
cut, my newly-named ‘gentlemen’s hairstylist’ rubbed in the Brylcreme,
sprayed on the cheapo toilet water and offered me something for the weekend as
I sashayed out of the saloon, combing and coaxing my mane into a huge greasy
wave to impress the girls. Then, as a mature fellow, being asked: ‘Same as
before sir?’, ‘How are the family?’ or ‘Where will you be going on holiday this
year?’ Discussing the finer points of professional soccer, the prevailing
weather conditions in the wide world outside his shop and the price of fish
also featured heavily. These professional chat lines continued right through middle
age, delivered with verbal dexterity by my again-named barber.
I now consider myself a dignified elder
statesman and my barber has developed a new angle on asking for the style I’d
like: A Tony Curtis, short back and sides, crew cuts, number ones and twos are
no longer on my menu. I seem to have passed the ‘a general tidy-up sir?’ phase
too. My most recent visit resulted in him telling me by way of compensation
that now my hairs have become grey, or as I would prefer to describe them,
silver, they will no longer fall out. This made me feel much better. He also
offered to trim my eyebrows and clip the bum fluff around and trailing hairs
escaping from my ears. This made me feel much worse. I also noticed him peering
with professional interest up my nostrils. But he didn’t care to mention these
virile bristles I know are sprouting there. And I didn’t mention to him that
they can grow an inch a day and that if I leave them for a week, playful kids
use them for skipping practice or for tying up their teachers.
‘Shall I trim your nose hair sir?’ he might of
thought of asking, but he didn’t care to mention it. That’ll be the next phase
probably.
From my Hertfordshire
Mercury column:
It’s
an Alternative New Year (2005)
New Year’s resolutions:
blood sweat and tears. And for what? These resolutions do indeed ruin a
primetime window of self-indulgence opportunity. If you don’t make ‘em, you won’t break ‘em I say.
The Christmas, New Year festivity and
overindulgence is unfortunately over at last. It must be, because all the fat
ladies are singing, and the fat gentlemen are bobbing up and down on the scales
too for that matter. So it’s New Year resolution time for those who insist in
participating: the gyms and fitness rooms are swelling and trembling with festive
fat, swimming pools are overflowing with portly plungers and the highways are
wobbling with huffing puffing cyclists with overhanging bottoms. Not a pretty
sight; especially when they are featuring incredibly stretched designer
sportswear Christmas presents and are supported by pornographic shorts. But it
won’t last. It never does. We all eventually revert to type and our previous
life style, some sooner than others. This may well sound defeatist, but it’s
the truth, it’s human nature in the raw. Anyway, no matter what your doctor
tells you – fat is fun. I say crawl back on the couch in front of the tele and dialup a pizza.
Down in the fitness room
rookie keep-fitters defraud their especially formulated work-out schedules; in
the pool swimmers stop for air and exaggerate their lengths; and on the roads
cyclists get off and lean on their bikes when they think no one’s looking. All
this splendid activity can actually continue into February in some exceptional
and stubborn cases. Are they happy? No they are not.
As for other favourite
resolutions: smokers are now becoming outcasts of society even if they are
paradoxically the most social of people; nowadays they are forced to huddle and
hunch outside their offices every hour for a quick drag while non smokers
inside get on with their work. Restaurants no longer welcome smokers with
wall-to-wall ash trays and pubs will be next to follow their example for sure.
So smokers are wasting their time giving up smoking every New Year – the law is
on their case, and there will soon be nowhere for them to hide anyway. My
advice: rebel! Save money on nicotine patches, buy more fags.
Eating healthily? The ozone
destroying lettuce and carrot juice brigade bulge with an influx of
enthusiastic recruits every New Year, but within a few lean weeks, deserters
have taken their foot off the gas and are again happily wallowing in saturated
fat. Why torture our poor bodies in the first place?
Curbing alcohol consumption?
It’s a non starter, no thanks, don’t be stupid. Drinking to excess is a
centuries-old tradition handed down by all British mums and dads to their
little children.
Why bother with New Year
resolutions in the first place? They only end in failure after a few long weeks
of misery and self denial; but as it’s a British ritual, and if you really must
. . .
From my Hertfordshire
Mercury column:
Did I tell you
the story about the time that I got locked in the gentlemen’s loo with three
ladies? No, I couldn’t have, because it only happened very recently.