Let’s Talk About Blogging

I don’t know if everyone stumbles into the blogosphere the way that I did, but (for me) what started off as a slight diversion became an obsession: a world into which I fully invested. Self-obsession balanced by curiosity, empathy and (fancifully perhaps) friendship. If sixty-six years of life has taught me anything at all, it is that you can’t have too many of those.

It becomes painfully when, through no fault of your own (in as much as you can ever be totally absolved of blame for what happens in your life) you miss – as I have just done – posting, and possibly more importantly, reading (blogging being an all-round participation sport) for a few weeks.

Today I feel a little like a footballer (non-league obviously) who has ‘come back too early’ and broken down almost immediately. I came back to the blog after an enforced lay-off, I wasn’t very good and then I disappeared again. I blame the physios.

Two weeks on the treatment bench afforded me the opportunity to review. Getting On is about getting older, not about being old. It is about how the world looks through an older person’s eyes and it has, incidentally, become about the old person himself. Life (a seventy year progression from one nappy to another) is short and the end of it becomes ever-closer day by day, ill-advised meal by ill-advised meal, speeding driver by speeding driver. Life becomes increasingly fragile. Run into a lamppost as a child and you simply have to laugh off an ‘egg’ the size of a football on your forehead. It won’t slow you down. Do it at my age (a possibility made all the greater by failing eyesight and the tendency to become distracted by irrelevances) and you will almost certainly wake up on a trolley in a corridor in A&E with an overworked junior doctor attempting to reconcile your injuries with somebody else’s case notes.

For reasons I do not understand, my retirement having offered up the potential (fully embraced) for seven-days-a-week working has led to a to-do list that has grown exponentially. For each job ticked off the top of the list, two more appear at the bottom. The need for a drop of oil on a door hinge will lead inexorably to the need for new hinges, new door ‘furniture’, a better lock and – oh bugger it – let’s just change the door. Maybe brick up the hole and move it a foot or so to the left… DIY imposes a kind of pyramid selling scheme: each little job necessitates two more. The butterfly effect in bricks and mortar. Knocking in a nail is like firing the starting pistol on an obstacle race of such fiendish complexity and Gordian intricacy that not even Victoria Coren Mitchell* would be able to map a way through. My wife’s ever-shifting hierarchy of urgency ensures that the task I am currently attempting to complete is never the right one.

But that’s ok. There is little I do these days without thinking, ‘could I write about this?’ When it all goes tits-up, it’s ok, I can write about it. That is what blogging has done for me. I don’t beat myself up for making a mess of stuff, I write it off. Somehow that gives me the space to think myself through putting it right. Not that it means my second attempt will be any better, just more considered. Knowing where something has gone wrong does not mean that I won’t fall down the same wormhole again. Generally it just means I get straight there without the initial meandering. I have always been comfortable with my ability to write. I am no Shakespeare, but then, he’s dead and I’m not. I feel that I would read, and enjoy, what I write, but… you know… I wrote it. And I’m old. I am what I am writing about. Would young me enjoy it?

It bothers me because, if I’m honest, that’s why I write it. It’s kind of a warning for the young: live long enough and you will end up just like this! I understand that you might find me saggilly repulsive, but I am envious of your drum-tightness and the fact that you can stand from the squat without sounding like a lovelorn hippo. I am envious of all the time you have left, but I am mindful that – as much as I moan about your woke sensibilities and your sense of entitlement – we are fundamentally the same. It is life that has changed. You have mobile phones, you eat out, you drink out, you have a social life that does not revolve around home-brewed wine and canapés featuring Dairylea Cheese Triangles, but you cannot (and you really cannot) afford the deposit to buy a house. We bought a house when I was twenty. We definitely weren’t rich, we were both shop workers, and the interest rate on our mortgage was 17% (I know, I’ve just looked it up) but our expectations were so very different. I do have a house and I do have a pension, but I fear for my future. I have no idea what – if I have one – it will bring me. We will scrape by, and then we will die and you (young people) will do the same. You will retire much later, but also live much longer and (I sincerely hope – I have grandchildren) in much better health. We all work a life away in the hope of a happy autumn and a comfortable winter. I am in my autumn – ok, late autumn – and winter is much closer than I ever thought it would be, but there is one thing that I am just as good at as I ever was: finding joy wherever it is hiding. It is much better at hiding these days, but I have lots of time to find it. Stay tuned, I will tell you all about it. It is what I love about blogging…

*Daughter of Alan Coren: razor wit and stellar intellect, professional poker player and presenter of the most obtuse of all game shows ‘Only Connect’.

Episode One – A Brief Synopsis

It was the morning of Fabergé’s wedding to Claudio. Her mother and father were beside themselves with excitement – so much so that, as soon as they had left their respective lover’s bed (they shared the same one) they sat together for breakfast, she toying with the carving knife and he wondering whether he could asphyxiate her by filling her nose with peanut butter. Fabergé was also beside herself (that’s part of the problem with split-personality) but Claudio was somewhere else entirely. Claudio’s mother did not approve of Fabergé or her step-foster parents (Derek and Doreen Clench) because she felt they were beneath her family (as they lived in the coal cellar) but Claudio loved Fab (as he called her – which really annoyed her mother who much preferred ‘Ergé’) and would do anything for her, other than change his name to Ethel.

It was ‘The Wedding of the Year’ on The Close (Formerly Archibald’s Close before it was discovered that Lord Archibald had once shared a bed with a yak and Royal Mail had objected to the fact that he was not, in fact, close) and the street was festooned with brightly coloured bunting and light emitting festive orbs (formally known as Fairy Lights, until the council decided the term was offensive). Everyone was in a state of high excitement and good will abounded. Nobody had been pushed up a wall and threatened for hours. Dave’s ‘Sausage In A Bap’ van (formerly Hot Dog van before somebody pointed out that it didn’t serve dogs and what it did serve was at best lukewarm) was parked up in front of the local pub and ready to go. Surely there could be no problem associated with a van containing two ersatz propane tanks, each having cheap Taiwanese fittings, twenty gallons of cooking fat and a fuel tank filled with something made from reclaimed vegetable oil, bath-tub gin and illegally imported nail-varnish remover being positioned exactly where everybody threw their fag-ends.

Fabergé looked at the photograph of her Equally Viable and Non-Dependent Other-to-be (formerly fiancé before somebody decided that owing to discriminatory spelling the word was demeaning) and sighed. She would tell him about the sex-change at the reception. Mo Cringe, mother of Derek, step-foster grandmother of Fabergé, secret lover of Claudio and family matriarch, was trying on her hat. “Do you think that black is really the right colour grandma?” said Dirk, her youngest half-step grandson-in-law.
“It’s a dark day,” she said with her now familiar perma-scowl.
“Why?” asked Dirk.
“I think it’s something to do with the cloud cover,” she said. “Is she ready yet?”
“Fabergé?”
“Who else?” Dirk swallowed slightly. “Erm, nearly,” he said. “She’s having a bit of trouble fastening her dress. She bought it before she… you know…”
“…Got herself pregnant with that brush salesman’s lovechild.” she said.
“But,” asked Dirk “isn’t it Claudio’s baby?”
Mo laughed out loud and catapulted her dentures across the room. “Him? He can’t have children. Not since the incident with the Hen Party from Grimsby and the over-inflated sheep.”
“Does Fab know?”
“He might have mentioned it to her during the course of ante-natal classes…”

One by one the residents of The Crescent readied themselves for The Wedding of the Year (which, by The Close tradition, generally took place about three weeks before the Acrimonious Divorce of the Year) finalising their plans to use this best of opportunities to settle past scores with neighbours, friends and family. Claudio climbed out of bed and having woken both of the bridesmaids, sent them home to get their dresses on, smiling evilly as he watched them scurry away. But not as evilly as the maid of honour for whom the antibiotics had still not worked…

Now read on…

First published 19 May 2023

As I write this, Eastenders is celebrating its 40^th year of misery. The Close is my Albert Square (setting for Eastenders). It’s a good deal sillier than the flagship BBC Soap, but no further from reality. I always feel that silly is my forte and I know that I should do it more often. I will make it my mission…

History of the World (part 239)

1. There was no room at the Inn.

2. In a small, cob-webby garage in the town of Scunthorpe, Mrs Mary Smith lay on a mouldy canvas camp-bed, giving birth to a son. Her eyes were heavy and swollen and a bump on her forehead glowed angry in the meagre candle light. Her husband was an angry man. He just would not listen.

3. Granted, it must have been a bit hard for him, coming home from a year spent brick-laying in the Saudi Arabian sunshine to find his wife decidedly pregnant. He wouldn’t listen.

4. Bleedin’ visitation by a wossname spirit? What you take me for? Milkman more like. With gin maybe. Son of GOD? Do you expect the blokes down the boozer to believe that? You’ve made me a bleedin’ laughing stock, an object held up for ridicule, narmean?

5. In his anger he smote her.

6. But now he was kindness itself. True, she would have preferred a bed in a maternity hospital, but he had assured her: Do as you are bleedin’ well told. Don’t want people talking now, do we? Pointing the wossname finger. Anyway, he had read the books and she had to admit it was very clean, as garages go.

7. She screamed again, and all around her the ferrets paced their cages.

8. Later she held the boy child and sighing, lay back, banging her head on the bumper of the old Ford Cortina he was doing up to help with the rent.

9. Day passed into night and the musky smell of nappies hung, humid in the frost-sharp air. It was then that the first of three wise men arrived bearing an unsolicited gift.

10. He was called Ted and he had travelled for what seemed like forty days and forty nights on the Inter-City from London. He was Customs and Excise and none could stop him entering.

11. He spake: What we got here then, where’s the grass? Come on, don’t play innocent with me, we’ve had a tip off. I know your sort, hippies, all junkies. ‘Ere, that baby looks high. You breast feeding are you? We can tell you know, run tests. Better off if you own up now, save a lot of bother. We could talk to the judge, you know, young mother, educationally sub-normal, very helpful, that sort of thing. That’s best. Otherwise we turn this place inside out.

12. I don’t know what you’re talking about. You can’t do that.

13. Oh yes I can, I got the gift of this ‘ere piece of paper from the DPP. I can impound the baby if I feel like it. And so saying, he began to search the alimentary canals of seventeen severely disgruntled ferrets.

14. The second wise man was called Tom, he was from the Inland revenue.

15. He spake: I come bearing a gift. Fill in this form and sign it at the bottom. Don’t lie, because we always get you in the end. You’re not putting the baby down as your secretary are you? Get a lot of that we do, but we got tests, we can tell. I’ll ask him to take down some notes in shorthand to prove that he can do it, like.

16. He’s not my secretary, he’s my dependant. I’m claiming Family Allowance. It is my right.

17. The Tax Inspector turned puce. The Tax Inspector ground his dental implants to dust. The Tax Inspector wiped his spectacles with a grubby handkerchief. The Tax Inspector broke his Government Issue pen. He spake: Another bloody loop-hole! There’s no bloody fun in this job anymore.

18. The Tax Inspector stamped away from the garage, squashing a snail between his thumb and forefinger.

19. The third wise man was, in fact, a wise woman. It was unusual to see a woman in such a position, but she was, of course, paid less than the two wise men. Still, that’s life, isn’t it? Also, she had bad breath and an embarrassing skin condition causing her to squint and peel on her superiors. That is not life, that is type-casting.

20. Her name was Hermione.

21. She spake: Sign this.

22. What is it? Asked Mary.

23. Questions, questions, questions: always bloody questions these days. Nobody ever signs without asking stupid bloody questions. Dear me! I used to commit fourteen old ladies in a single morning not so long ago. All of ‘em signed straight away. No problem. Had ‘em in the van before they could reach for the bath chair brakes.

24. What is it you want me to sign? she asked, wiping sump oil from her forehead.

25. Educationally subnormal, wrote the wise woman on her notepad. She spake: just sign will you stupid, before I phone for ‘the boys’.

26. But what’s it for?

27. For? For? What is anything for? Why was paper invented? Why do you suppose some bright spark invented the biro? It’s for our files.

28. Look, you can’t tell me that it’s right bringing a baby up like this. One of my sources tells me that you actually gave birth in here without a midwife being present. That’s against the law for a kick-off. And where’s your husband, eh?

29. A tear swelled in Mary’s eye. He’s out at work.

30. Oh, absentee father eh? look, you don’t stand a chance. Just sign the bloody form, I’ll take the baby and that’s the end of it. It will all go through the courts and he’ll be legally adopted within the week. Now won’t that be a weight off your mind?

31. You’ve come to take my baby?

32. Yes, we don’t hang about, you know.

33.But he’s my flesh and blood, he grew inside me. I’ve fed him at my breast, not to mention changed his mucky nappies and wiped his important little places. You can’t do this.

34. Of course I can. Come on, just sign, it’s only to say that I’ve taken delivery. It doesn’t really matter, I’ll take him anyway.

35. Come on, sign. I’ve had a hard day. I was up at seven repossessing my mother’s walking frame. Crafty old cow got up at six and tried to run off with it. She’s nearly reached the gate by the time I caught her. I told her, you should have kept up your payments, a contract’s a contract. That’s what contracts is for. ‘Course, she turned on the tears, but that don’t work anymore, on account of how I caught her practicing in front of the mirror. It took me ages to make her sign and then, when I got back to the office, I found she’d written ‘Micky Moose’. I’ll give her what for when I get home, silly cow. She’d better have my tea ready, that’s all. Now, just sign will you?

36. My baby, she sobbed.

37. Don’t you start, she spake, it makes the ink run. A signature’s no good when the ink’s run. It messes up the computer. Here, use this ballpoint.

38. My baby, she sobbed.

39. Oh come on love, she spake, putting her arm around Mary’s shoulder and steadying her signing arm. You know that’s not true. That nice Mr Jehovah paid you £1,000 to have the baby for him. You can’t go back on your agreement now. It’s the law. Sign here.

40. With a sigh, Mary signed the paper and took the cheque for one thousand pounds on delivery.

41. The wise woman took the baby. They’re going to call him Nigel, she spake.

A slight diversion from the usual Sunday repeat today because this story has never appeared on this platform before. I wrote it over forty years ago (and reproduce it here verbatim) and, as far as I can see, is probably the first magazine piece that I was ever paid for. I found it during the house move and thought it was interesting. It doesn’t seem to have aged too badly – except perhaps for the sum of £1,000 – but I’ll leave you to decide how much my view of the world might have changed since way back then…

Happy Place

Well, here I am again: same spot, but in a much better place. The house still seems to be losing its pants around us, but we’re finding ways to hold them up – mostly with paint. In a few days time we should at least have a handle on what is necessary to resolve the electrical problems and then, like kids with Lego, we start to knock it all down and build it up as something else – almost certainly wonky.

Decorating, decision making, electricians, plumbers, builders all lay ahead of us but for some reason upon which I am unable to put a finger, I feel relatively happy. It is not like me. Morose is my middle name. I am King of morosity – now that I know that it’s a real word (and probably a nearly-hit for a 1980’s band of brothers) however, today I am bordering on sanguine and I have no idea why. If I had, I’d probably do it more often.

Odd, isn’t it, how being happy makes you happy. I am sixty-six years of age now and it has happened to me… mmm, well, I’ll be honest, this could just be the first time. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean that I have spent my entire life miserable… maybe the last few weeks… It’s normal. There are so many metaphors for ‘unhappy’: ‘down in the dumps’; ‘heavy hearted’; ‘got a face like a wet weekend’; ‘lost a pound and found a penny’; ‘has the weight of the world on his shoulders’, ‘somebody’s pissed on his matches’, but only one for someone who is happy all the time: ‘the man’s a f*cking nightmare!’ Moderation in all things is the way forward: it’s ok to be happy, but only when you’re eating chocolate. People who smile all the time will quickly find that they are kept away from children. Those who smile in the face of adversity probably need to get a dictionary: they almost certainly do not understand the concept of ‘adversity’. Catastrophe, like a Roy ‘Chubby’ Brown concert, is no laughing matter.

There are many historical instances of people facing impending disaster with a grin: it never helped; the disaster still happened and the grinners simply appeared deranged. With wailing and gnashing of teeth is the only sane way to face disaster. Life, for most people is little more than a gentle slide into calamity. A permanent smile simply points to rigor. No rational person smiles in the face of okra.

I must have been a bit of a smiler myself as a boy because my school day memories are filled with instances of incandescent tutors (we were not allowed to call them ‘teachers’) sneeringly enquiring “What are you grinning at, McQueen? Do you find Shakespeare amusing?” “Only the comedies, sir.” I seem to remember I was sniggering because Hymen had just appeared in ‘As You Like It’. A furious, red faced tutor, bellowing cheese and onion fumes into my face, should have wiped the smile off it, but I do have, I must confess, the unfortunate tendency to laugh uncontrollably when under duress. The vast majority of my laughter occurs in inappropriate circumstances: when being lectured by people in authority; when I feel certain that my house is being burgled; every time I go to a funeral. Sadly, as a lifelong fan of sit-com, I can tell you that there is very little to laugh at these days, yet in reality I must confess that I am actually one of those excruciatingly annoying cheerful souls I so despise.

Despite a tendency to worry at length about anything and everything, my life is generally one of joy. I am on constant whistle watch. Whistling while I work is, if not exactly my biggest flaw, a fairly considerable one and bloody annoying to all around me, so I try my very hardest not to do it. In my head I hear a tune, but I’m fully aware that, to everyone around me, there is no tune, just a mind numbingly monotonous shriek and I’ve begun to realise that ‘mind numbing shriek’ is how I see myself. If I had to be around me, I think I would rather do it when I’m mardy and therefore not whistling. I think a droning moan is probably less off-putting than mindlessly cheerful shrieking.

A happy man is almost always an inane oasis in a desert filled with dehydrated haters who would rather die than go near it.

So here I sit, still on the sofa with the netbook on my knee, but around me various problems are beginning to resolve, mostly in a happy way and a move into my little office sanctuary grows ever closer. This little house may yet become my happy place. I may soon have a desk to rest my keyboard on – away from the distractions of house and TV – and a window to stare out of and that prospect fills me with joy. Happy being happy, that’s me…

Mea Culpa

I feel that I should apologize.

Not for any particular reason, just… well, you know.

First on my mind, I feel that I should apologize for the distinct lack of refinement in some of my most recent posts. Life is doing what it can to overwhelm me. I feel that I need to face up to it, and I am working on it, but I am such a sad creature of habit. I need to be back in surroundings that I understand. Work on my ‘office’ has found itself at the bottom of a very large ‘things to do’ list and so I continue to write with a laptop perched atop my knee. I have recently ‘recommissioned’ an old netbook (eg turned it on and allowed it to update itself over a period of what feels like about six months) which is much more convenient for knee-perching. Everything is written as always was, but I cannot find the time for my usual, edit, edit, edit routine. You are getting it between the eyes, twice weekly, exactly as it emerges from my head. It is reaching you very much ‘in the rough’. You are seeing my actual double chin rather than the chiselled James Bond jaw that I try to persuade you is mine. These are my usual turds, but I do not currently have the time to polish them.

And then, I feel I should apologize for being such an arse. I know that nothing has changed there – I remain exactly the same pain in one as I have always been. I would love to be the person that I would love to be, but I am not. I am not the person that anyone would want me to be. I’m a trier, I’ll give me that, but I am also trying and the trouble with trying is that, in my experience, failing is always lurking just around the corner. I can’t stop myself getting older, I expected it, but I had no idea that it came along with being more stupid. I have discovered that whatever it is, my foot is always in it.

When I was a child my mum always told me, ‘Just apologize. It doesn’t matter why. Apologize, it always makes things better,’ and it works to a point except an apology always comes with an implicit admission of guilt and, in practice, as churlish as it might seem, it is often best not to apologize unless there is a fair certainty that you are actually to blame (e.g. a man). There are professions (politicians, surgeons, snake-oil sellers) for which the principal of worm-can opening ensures that no apology will ever be forthcoming. Mea Culpa becomes Aliquis est Culpa (Look it up. I did.) it is in the rules. Sadly, never being to blame, can lead to some pretty unpleasant character traits. Does anyone ever remember hearing Donald Trump saying sorry? Of course not, he has nothing to be sorry about…

I, on the other hand, have lots. I have opinions when they are not required and nothing but equivocation when I should really be quivocating. And I can only apologize for it…

A Little Fiction – The Custodian of Time

The Custodian of Time sat, open-legged on the heavily brocaded settle, smoothing the creases from his satin pyjama trousers and picking the loose threads from the cushion on which he rested his arm. His movements were leisurely, but his eyes skipped around the room and he spoke as if time was of the very essence, which, of course, for its Custodian, it was.
“I suppose he wants more does he; they all do?” The words jettisoned from his mouth without warning or prevarication, in a way that would have caused his attendant to leap from his skin – if only he had some.
The acolyte was, in fact, a small ectoplasmic fog, slightly purple in colour – lilac possibly – and nervous to the point of dissipation. It was his/her’s (we’ll assume her for ease) very first day on duty and her first time alone in the presence of the Custodian. She had been told, “Pass on the request. Wait for the reply. Leave.” Simple. She hadn’t been led to expect a question. She hoped it was rhetorical.
“Well?” said the Custodian. Obviously it was not.
The attendant’s stress-level passed critical. She was aware that she was starting to precipitate. She coughed nervously (as only a lilac ectoplasmic cloud can). “Erm… that is… well… I think so. Actually no, not really. No. It’s more of an assurance he’s after I think, not more time, just an assurance that he won’t get less.”
“Less than what?”
“Well, less than he expects, I think.”
The Custodian picked at his teeth with the corner of the written request (parts 2 and 3). His eyes betrayed no clue to the activity that whirred behind them. Eventually, with a sigh, he removed the paper from his mouth, flicked an errant sesame seed from it, before smoothing it out across his lap.
“He understands, does he, that what I give to one I must take from another?”
“I don’t know,” said the blob, emboldened by the hesitation he detected in the Custodian. “I don’t think that he wants more anyway. He just, as I understand it, would like an assurance. He was led to believe, from birth, that he could expect to live to one hundred years of age, and he just wants to be assured that that is what he will get. He doesn’t smoke, he’s a moderate drinker, fit and well. He just wants some certainty.”
“Has he told you what he plans to do with this certainty?”
“I’m sorry, I…” The gossamer orb was in full-fluster once again.
“When he knows that after Wednesday he no longer has anything to lose…”
“Wednesday?”
“Wednesday? Did I say ‘Wednesday’? Just a slip of the tongue – probably. Not at all the kind of assurance he was looking for, huh? Tell him ‘Carpe Diem’ baby; tell him ‘Seize the day’. Tell him only one person knows what time has in store for him and, for every good reason, he is keeping that knowledge to himself.”
“But, what if he wants to do good things?”
“Then nobody’s stopping him,” said the Custodian and, with a wave of his podgy little fingers, he dismissed the cloud, which hesitantly turned (I think) to go.
“Come on,” barked the Custodian impatiently. “Tempus Fugit, baby. Get a move on. Time waits for no amorphous entity.” And with an audible ‘Pop!’ the attendant disappeared.
“Wednesday,” chuckled the Custodian. “Wednesday. I’m such a wag… Now, where’s the cloud with my supper?”

First published 07.07.2019

I don’t know. Perhaps I’d been eating cheese…

Tomorrow Never Comes (When You Want It)

Bond shot an immaculate starched cuff. The button flew off, pinged across the toecap of his patent leather dress shoes and rolled behind the commode. He turned a wry, rheumy eye to the red, digital countdown clock and wondered what he should do with the five minutes that he and the rest of the world had left. He had by now totally given up on trying to find the tiny pozidrive screwdriver that had dropped from his arthritic fingers and impaled a stray contact lens – such a shame that it belonged to his one good eye – and he had taken the battery out of his bomb diffusing watch because it interfered with his hearing aid.

He knew, of course, that this day was always going to come: the day that SPECTRE well and truly pissed on his Get Out of Jail Free card. Finding the right solution with just a snap of some hapless buggers spine had always been his forte, but he knew that these days he would be lucky to snap a digestive biscuit without putting his back out. Was the day he would have spent these three hundred seconds shooting miscreants with barely a glance whilst solving the kind of fiendish puzzle that would have GCHQ throwing itself on the traps. Nowadays all he could think about was making it through without needing a wee. He considered – of course he did – peeing on the bloody clock, but he knew with the certainty of age that all he would actually do would be to dribble down his trousers and drip onto the rush matting. It had become a race: which would pop its bolt first, the nuclear bomb or his prostate? He knew he was going to die, he just hoped it would be with a dry crotch.

Life had brought 007 many changes: arch-enemy Blofeld, twenty years his senior, had been sitting in his urn next to three of his incinerated cats for nigh on thirty years now; Scaramanga had breathed his last in a bizarre supernumerary nipple piercing incident, and Jaws had found himself a bigger boat. Even Q had moved on from exploding watches to fleece-lined trusses and M was almost old enough to be the President of the United States. It all gave a different perspective on life.

Even in his long-distant heyday, Bond slept with only one woman at a time. These days he could sleep with a whole roomful, especially if the heating was on and he had a blanket. His days of fighting against impossible odds were long gone. These days he spent most of his life fighting his pyjama cord. His powers of deduction were mostly used up in deciding where the wet patch came from.

He held an elegantly manicured hand up to his good eye and focussed on the timer. It read ‘90’. Ninety seconds to go to the end of everything. He thought of all the things he used to be able to do in a minute and a half, and then he considered his current options, but he got no further than ‘fart’ and even that took him down to sixty seconds – not even sufficient time to defrost a curry for one. If only he could focus on the problem before him. Forty five seconds to… what did he have to do now? “Focus. Come on, focus Bond. You’ve got thirty seconds to… God that ticking clock is bloody annoying… clock? Fifteen seconds? Oh Lord…” Back in the day Bond would not have given up, not even with one second to go, but let’s be honest, there was so little left worth fighting for since Moneypenny had cashed in her Lidl loyalty card…

Bond tensed, the clock ticked from three, to two, to one and… ‘Beep, beep, beep!’ “Bugger it,” he thought, opening the microwave door. “I’ve overdone the wheat bag again…”

Everything I Know About Scotland

Photo by Wender Junior Souza Vieira on Pexels.com

A little time ago I published a visitor guide for Cleckheaton despite the fact that I had never been there and for no better reason than I really liked the name of the place. Now here I am, on the way back from my house-move-imposed publishing interlude and ready to spread my wings. Today you get a country, next year the stars. I am not going to try and tell you that I am a Scotland expert. Despite my name, I am not. But I am interested, it is a magnificently beautiful country, and I am happy to tell you all I know about it because that’s just the way I am: give, give, give.

Scotland is a relatively small country tagged onto the north of England having come here in the far distant past from the coast of America for the good of its health. The subsequent collision of transient country and intransigent landmass threw up a mountain range between the two which the Scots hoped would keep the English out, but it never quite worked. Scotland is a verdant country – it is a green land, so much so that Donald Trump is attempting to occupy it one golf course at a time – everything is green, largely because it NEVER STOPS RAINING. It is colder than the rest of the UK and the rain only ever lessens when it can’t stop itself from turning to snow. In between periods of rain and snow, it sleets. Sleet can find its way through any amount of clothing. It is impossible to be warm in sleet unless you are on the outside of the water of life… (Uisge beath – Gaelic for ‘water of life – became shortened to Uisge – pronounced oosh gae and eventually ‘whisky’. There is no ‘e’ in Scottish Whisky (Scotch) because it is not American, Irish or Japanese – there is no other reason. Whisky is Scotland’s gift to the world, but don’t run away with the idea that all Scots drink it. We once spent a wonderful couple of weeks on holiday with a Scottish family who were the best company and, more importantly, introduced us to The Girder: vodka and Irn Bru – the true national drink of Scotland – which is impossible to put down until you fall down.

As well as being the birth place of the water of life, Scotland is also home to the most beautiful city in the world. Edinburgh is lively, peaceful, beautiful, ugly, modern and ancient; obviously wet and cold also, but it’s a place I constantly find myself wanting to get back to. If you live outside Britain well, obviously I am very sorry for you, but should you be able to visit the UK, please allow me to suggest that you forsake the lure of London, London, London for at least a few nights and visit the Scottish capital where you can enjoy the people, the city and especially the whisky after which, if you are assiduous enough in your endeavours, you will enjoy absolutely everything and love absolutely everyone.

As far as food is concerned in Scotland anything goes – as long as it is fried. There are few who would argue that the Scottish diet is the most healthy in the world. Real Scottish people – like all of us – eat a decent balance of foods, but the general perception is that they eat only foodstuffs that have been cooked in hot fat, pies and haggis. The Scots do not eat haggis. Haggis is just a joke against the English. Traditionally accompanied by ‘neeps and tatties (‘neeps’ being an abbreviation of turnips, despite the fact that they are not turnips at all, but actually mashed swede, and ‘tatties’ being mashed potato – together they are like the mush you first feed babies, but with absolutely nothing that would ever convince mini-humans to forsake the nipple) haggis is simply a bagful of all the stuff that can be dredged out of a dead animal that no-one in their right mind would ever eat drenched in sufficient herbs to disguise the flavour of a cadaver’s innards without actually making them in any way palatable. There is not a Scottish person alive that does not find the fact that English people actually believe that they eat haggis hilarious. Even funnier is that they have somehow persuaded the entire population of England that on the 25^th January each year (Burns Night) we should all eat haggis, neeps and tatties prior to coughing our insides out thanks to the unaccustomed snag of whisky on the effete English throat. (NB I have drunk whisky all my life but it took a trip to Scotland for me to learn that it takes a couple of drips of room temperature water to bring whisky to life. Long, long ago I asked for ice in my whisky in an Edinburgh pub and the barman looked askance at me, shook his head slowly and said “Ice? Do you not know what it did to The Titanic?” The conversation went no further.)

Scottish men do not wear kilts – they laugh at the thought of everyone with the most tenuous of associations to Scotland leaping into a thick, woollen skirt at the faintest whiff of a wedding – and nobody, but NOBODY actually listens to bagpipe music for enjoyment. In fact the phrase ‘bagpipe music’ is a total oxymoron. Bagpipes do not produce music, they produce a kind of shrieking death rattle. It is no coincidence that the sound they produce originates through a drone. The image of the lone piper swirling down on the advancing, kilted hordes is the stuff of legend. If it happened at all, it is almost certain that the skirted warriors were just trying to get away from the racket.

And finally, my last ‘Scotland fact’ for this post is that its national animal is the Unicorn which – unless you are a five year old girl you will know – does not actually exist and, therefore, could not possibly wear a kilt. Not even after whisky…

A Little Fiction – Winnie-the-Pooh and a Head Full of Kapok

IMG_2592 (2) — When you realise – too late – that the image you had planned to use is copyright, and you have to draw your own…

Having passed pristine through the hands of Christopher Robin and relatively unscathed through those of his children, Winnie-the-Pooh was now in the hands of the grandchildren and feeling the strain. The daily bump-bump-bump of his head on the stairs was taking its toll. He did not find thinking things through nearly as easy as he used to, and now he thought about it, he had never found it particularly easy in the first place. ‘Perhaps,’ he thought, ‘that’s what comes of having a head stuffed full of kapok.,’ although he had not the faintest idea of what kapok actually was and even less of a clue if that was what a bear of a certain age had stuffed in its head at all. Whatever it was he had stuffed between his ears, he was pretty sure that it was not nearly as densely packed as it used to be. ‘Perhaps that’s why I can’t erhm… can’t… Oh dear, what is it I can’t?’ thought Pooh. ‘Oh dear, I can’t remember. What is it I can’t remember? I can’t remember. Oh dear…’ Pooh sat on the bottom stair to collect himself. ‘Kapok,’ he mused. ‘Was it kapok? Oh dear, I forget. What is kapok?’ To calm himself, Pooh hummed a little hum he had just composed.

What is kapok? Goodness knows!
It must be something I suppose.
Perhaps it fills my head and toes
And possibly my down-belows.

Or is it sawdust in my head
That’s drained down to my feet instead
And trickled out through loosened thread
To join the fur-balls that I shed.

Whatever is inside of me
Is falling out as you can see
And taking consequentially
What little brain there used to be.

Pooh was very happy with his hum and he would have given it a tune if he hadn’t forgotten the first verse before he hummed the last…

Some time later, Pooh was tramping across what remained of the Hundred Acre wood – a small area of scrubland, bedecked with broken bicycles, burned out cars and soiled and soggy bed mattresses, in the middle of a semi-derelict housing estate – when he bumped into Piglet. ‘Where are you going?’ asked Pooh.
‘Why,’ said Piglet. ‘I’m not sure, but I believe I am going to the same place as you.’
‘In that case,’ said Pooh ‘I shall join you.’
And so Winnie-the-Pooh and Piglet tramped off together to find out where they were going.
‘How do you think we will know when we get there?’ asked Piglet.
‘Well, I suppose that after we get there we will start going back,’ said Pooh. ‘So then we’ll know.’
‘Why of course,’ said Piglet. ‘I would never have thought of that.’

Presently, some time after Winnie-the-Pooh had stopped to pick some dog shit out of his fur with a stick, Owl fluttered down beside the friends. Having lost all of his forebears to poisoned rodents, Owl was attempting to embrace a vegetarian diet – and it was not agreeing with him. ‘In the old days,’ he moaned, ‘I could cough up a pellet the size of a Mars Bar. Full of fur and bone. You really knew I’d been there. Now what do I cough up? Don’t know? I’ll tell you. Seeds! That’s what I cough up now, seeds. Nature’s stealth bomber, that was me. The silent killer. The nation’s favourite raptor. And what am I now? I’ll tell you. A budgie, that’s what I am. A bleedin’ budgie.’ He swivelled his head evilly through 360°. ‘I miss the taste of pulsing flesh, blood and bone,’ he said and licked his beak in a way that only owls can do.
‘I miss honey,’ said Pooh sadly. ‘I’ve written a little poem about it.’
‘Oh Gawd!’ said Owl.
‘Would you like to hear it?’
‘No!’ chorused Owl and Piglet.
‘Very well,’ said Pooh, clearing his throat with a little cough.

Soft and yellow, sweet and sticky
Eating it with paws is tricky.
After just a jar or two
I would be stuck up like glue

Long ago, in times that’s been
I would lick my paws quite clean,
But now everything I eat is
Governed by my diabetes.

‘I hate flippin’ porridge’ said Pooh with a distant look in his beady glass eyes. ‘And I really miss honey.’
‘And I,’ grumbled Eeyore, who had been following them quietly for some time. ‘I miss my tail.’
‘Eeyore,’ said Pooh. ‘I didn’t know you were there.’
‘It would seem to me,’ said Eeyore morosely, ‘that that is the story of my life.’
‘What is?’ asked Piglet, who had been momentarily distracted by an earwig under his vest.
‘Nobody knows I’m here,’ groaned Eeyore. ‘Or cares…’
‘I care,’ said Pooh. ‘You still owe me a fiver.’

Owl had fluttered around to the rear-end of Eeyore and was examining his rump closely. The button that had once held Eeyore’s tail in place was long-gone, leaving just a stub of severed threads. The tail itself, it was said, lay amongst various bags of assorted household effluvia at the local landfill. A small open seam close to its original location was held together with a rusting safety pin.
‘Perhaps,’ said Owl, ‘we could pin you a new tail there.’
‘Oh could you?’ said Eeyore. ‘That would make me so…’
‘Happy?’ suggested Winnie-the-Pooh.
‘Happy,’ said Eeyore. ‘Whatever that might be.’

So, whilst Eeyore stood beside a rusting shopping trolley contemplating his posterior, Winnie-the-Pooh, Owl and Piglet began to search for something that would make Eeyore a new tail.
‘It’s a shame Tigger can’t be here to help,’ said Piglet.
‘He seldom leaves his house,’ said Pooh. ‘His top is still made of rubber, but it’s lost all its bounce. His bottom has no spring…’
‘We should go and cheer him up later,’ said Piglet.
Too late,’ said Owl, looking at a watch he kept tucked under his wing (God knows how). ‘He’ll be on the outside of a bottle of Scotch by now and sleeping it off under a tree as usual. We could try tomorrow.’
‘Perhaps I could hum him a cheerful hum,’ said Pooh.
‘No,’ chorused Eeyore, Piglet and Owl, just a little too quickly for Pooh’s liking.
‘I think he just needs rest,’ said Owl.
‘But…’ began Pooh, when Piglet interrupted him excitedly.
‘I’ve found just the thing,’ he cried, holding up a short length of frayed, orange nylon rope. ‘It doesn’t quite match the rest of you, Eeyore, but it will hang down just like a tail.’
Eeyore almost smiled. ‘Do you think anyone will notice that it isn’t really a tail,’ he asked. ‘Me being grey and it being orange and nylon and all. Will it make me look younger? Will it turn back the sands of time? Will it make me more desirable to other donkeys?’
Owl polished the thick, bottle-glass lenses of his spectacles, rested them back on his beak and looked earnestly at Eeyore. ‘It will look,’ he said ‘just like it had never fallen off… in an orange, nylon kind of a way. And at a fraction of the price of a transplant.’

First Published 05.09.2019

I love these little parodies, but they only work when they keep as close to the original in style as possible. Winnie the Pooh was my go-to book right through childhood and I wanted this to be an affectionate piece, but I was aware that time had moved on…

The Poor Workman

I have recently staggered past my 66^th birthday, making me – in this country at least – officially a pensioner and so moving into a bungalow seems to be both natural progression and dauntingly ageing.

The move comes with a plethora of ‘jobs’ far better suited to a much younger and better man than I but, you know what it’s like, you have to at least try before you fail. By and large I am barred from all but the most elementary electrical repairs and my wife would much sooner drown than let me within a spanner’s length of plumbing, but pretty much everything else is up for grabs. I have lived in an old, traditionally built house for forty-plus years, I know all about hanging shelves in those, but dry-lined walls present me with a whole new challenge. Drill a long narrow hole and hammer a long, fat plug into it seems to be the way, but the non-tightening screw scenario has become the norm; the small plug within a large one my extremely amateur solution. I spend my life asking ‘do you think that shelf is sagging?’ and attempting to work out exactly what it is strong enough to support. Anything with a weight above ethereal must sit directly over the bracket and not in a position where the inevitable collapse would lead to the decapitation of a grandchild.

I have never encountered a building with so much buried metal: cables that are not where they should be; pipes that run from nowhere to nowhere; unidentified ferric lumps wherever I try to drill. I fear that this house may well have been originally built from Meccano. My drill bits have a near-fatal attraction to it. Mirror/photo/picture hanging, at least, features only a hammer and, in some form or another, a nail. The resulting damage is equally catastrophic, but at least it’s all over quickly…

And now I’m looking down the wrong end of a paint brush and a lifetime of painting and decorating. I am filling the hundreds of redundant holes I have drilled and sanding down with abandon (I’ve run out of sandpaper). On the TV this process leaves an unblemished surface. In my house it appears as if the walls have tumours. I don’t use textured pain on inside walls, it just looks like it. At least my emulsion skills are not as meagre as my glossing capabilities. I can turn a perfectly flat expanse of wood into a ploughed field with a single stroke of my rapidly balding brush. The paint does not so much dry as coagulate. What I am left with is basically a shiny scab – that’s when the paint bothers to dry at all. Often it just sits there like a disconsolate teenager, belligerently refusing to submit to its chemical imperative, clinging onto the very last vestiges of oleaginous existence. No door in my house can be shoved without sticking to it, none can be closed without fusing it shut. All vertical surfaces carry drips that can be seen from space.

And I defy anyone to blame lack of effort on my part: I really do try. Sheer incompetence lies at the root of my glossing woes. I have tried ‘taking my time’, watching the paint bond the brush to the door mid-stroke; I have tried to increase my speed and consequently splashed onto every solid surface between the doorframe and Jupiter. My attempts to improve the domestic environment seldom raise me above Genghis Khan.

I must admit that my toolkit probably leaves much to be desired. I have been known to use my trusty spirit level when installing curtain rails only to find that they are at such an angle as to render the curtains self-closing. I fear I must have a faulty bubble. I have a mitre block with which I can cut any angle between 45 and 90 degrees, but seldom twice. I have a dozen different types of screwdriver, but never the one I need to fit the screw. I have more hammers than you can shake a broken stick at. I am not the poor workman, but the tool that blames him…