My dad said that when he was a kid, the genuine Santa was the one at Lewis's Department Store in Birmingham - all others were imposters and fakes. This Santa made a grand arrival by steam train at New Street Station. There, a coach and horses waited to take him to his grotto in the magical toy department of Lewis's - what other Santa could compete with that?
The nearest I had to Lewis's was the Tamworth Coop and its Grotto in the basement. Never the less, for a modest fee, you not only had the chance to see Santa - you also got to travel to the North Pole!
With my Mom and sister, we made our way down to the basement and climbed into a sort of large sleigh thing. Festive music started playing (probably Wizzard or Slade) and mysterious lights with snowflake patterns flashed as the 'sleigh' made its way to the frozen north - all very magical for a 70s six year old. Finally the lights dimmed and the music stopped.
'Here we are kids - at the North Pole now!'said Mom excitedly.
We left the sleigh and made our way with the other kids to where Santa waited in his Grotto. My turn came and after asking me all the usual questions ( had I been a good boy etc) Santa asked me what would I like for Christmas?
What would I like indeed - a chopper bike? a Millenium Falcon? or even a Mr Frosty?
No - I wanted a bag of balloons (I was a cheap kid to run). I thanked Santa, picked my present (a plastic sword for whacking things with) and we made our way out of the magical grotto.
At age six, I vaguely wondered why when we left the North Pole there was no sleigh ride back, and why we stepped out into the hardware section of the Coop.
'Oh, it's all magic' Mom assured me (an answer I've often used with my own daughter).
In a recent chat about Christmases past, I mentioned to Mom about the Coop Santa and how I genuinely thought we'd travelled in a magic sleigh (that played Wizzard) along to the North Pole .
She seemed surprised. 'You actually thought it was real?'
Of course I did, you told me so, and adults would never lie to kids - would they?
Merry Christmas - fellow bloggers and all!
Saturday 24 December 2011
Friday 9 December 2011
Men of Israel
My daughter is playing a shepherd in her nursery's nativity play. At school I was never picked for a nativity - however, I did have a brief role in one biblical production...
‘Now boys, who wants to be an Egyptian soldier?’ Mrs Bonn scanned the class looking for recruits.
‘Me, Miss!’
A flurry of little hands, including my own quickly shot up.
‘Ok let’s see, two, four, six, you can all be soldiers; while the rest can play Israelite slaves.’
I wasn’t one of the six and groaned inwardly. Why couldn’t I be a soldier? You’d get to make an ace cardboard sword to hit people, and a shield you could keep. Being a slave couldn’t be much of a role surely. Still - at least I was one of the good guys.
That summer at primary school, two classes were to produce separate episodes of the Moses story. Mrs Bonn, our teacher, had decided to keep it simple and produce the ‘basket and bull rushes’ episode - a prelude to the later events. The main man was played by a rather tatty Tiny Tears doll and the roles of Pharaoh and the Hebrew ladies completed the cast.
We managed some brief rehearsals, and soon it was time to perform our play in front of the whole school.
Heave, heave, heave men of Israel!
With some trepidation, I shuffled onto the stage with the other ‘slaves’, dragging a large, imaginary block of stone. Our costume consisted of black PE shorts, and one of the soldiers followed carrying a lash made from paper streamers stuck to a kitchen roll tube. We also had our own slave’s chorus to sing.
We slave all day in the burning sun
An Israelite’s work is never done
Heave, heave....
Exit the slaves and enter the villainous Pharaoh, who uttered his infamous decree and despatched his dastardly soldiers to carry out his dirty work. In Monty Python fashion, the soldiers galloped onto the stage astride invisible horses, brandishing their swords menacingly as they searched out the infant Moses. However, the ever resourceful Hebrew ladies (girls do your stuff) were one step ahead, and hid our plastic friend in the safety of the tissue paper rushes. Our performance was finished, and the challenge was set for the other class to stage their play next week.
Their production was a grand affair, and featured glamorous costumes plus a host of extras. Like a Hollywood epic, as opposed to our BBC style budget offering. Moses was played by the annoyingly good looking kid, always picked for the heroic biblical roles, and we cut straight to the action. Having obtained freedom via a variety of nasty plagues, Moses now led the Israelites to freedom. Whilst Pharaoh (played charmingly by a girl), screamed out ‘Catch those Hebrew slaves!’ and personally headed the mighty Egyptian army (all four of them) in hot pursuit.
I watched and wondered how they would show the parting of the Red Sea; that would stump them I thought. However, this was the clever bit. As the Israelites reached the shore, Moses held his metre ruler (sorry, trusty staff) aloft and the waves duly parted. Four kids, hidden underneath two large blankets, (blue not red) scrambled in different directions to let them pass safely through. As the treacherous Egyptians tried to follow, they were engulfed in a tempest of blanket. For the final authentic touch you could see Pharaoh’s crown as it bobbed on the surface before disappearing.
I resisted the urge to jump up and rescue the pretty Pharaoh, and applauded along with the rest of the school. A glance at the faces of my class mates was enough to realize that our modest production had been well and truly outclassed.
‘Now boys, who wants to be an Egyptian soldier?’ Mrs Bonn scanned the class looking for recruits.
‘Me, Miss!’
A flurry of little hands, including my own quickly shot up.
‘Ok let’s see, two, four, six, you can all be soldiers; while the rest can play Israelite slaves.’
I wasn’t one of the six and groaned inwardly. Why couldn’t I be a soldier? You’d get to make an ace cardboard sword to hit people, and a shield you could keep. Being a slave couldn’t be much of a role surely. Still - at least I was one of the good guys.
That summer at primary school, two classes were to produce separate episodes of the Moses story. Mrs Bonn, our teacher, had decided to keep it simple and produce the ‘basket and bull rushes’ episode - a prelude to the later events. The main man was played by a rather tatty Tiny Tears doll and the roles of Pharaoh and the Hebrew ladies completed the cast.
We managed some brief rehearsals, and soon it was time to perform our play in front of the whole school.
Heave, heave, heave men of Israel!
With some trepidation, I shuffled onto the stage with the other ‘slaves’, dragging a large, imaginary block of stone. Our costume consisted of black PE shorts, and one of the soldiers followed carrying a lash made from paper streamers stuck to a kitchen roll tube. We also had our own slave’s chorus to sing.
We slave all day in the burning sun
An Israelite’s work is never done
Heave, heave....
Exit the slaves and enter the villainous Pharaoh, who uttered his infamous decree and despatched his dastardly soldiers to carry out his dirty work. In Monty Python fashion, the soldiers galloped onto the stage astride invisible horses, brandishing their swords menacingly as they searched out the infant Moses. However, the ever resourceful Hebrew ladies (girls do your stuff) were one step ahead, and hid our plastic friend in the safety of the tissue paper rushes. Our performance was finished, and the challenge was set for the other class to stage their play next week.
Their production was a grand affair, and featured glamorous costumes plus a host of extras. Like a Hollywood epic, as opposed to our BBC style budget offering. Moses was played by the annoyingly good looking kid, always picked for the heroic biblical roles, and we cut straight to the action. Having obtained freedom via a variety of nasty plagues, Moses now led the Israelites to freedom. Whilst Pharaoh (played charmingly by a girl), screamed out ‘Catch those Hebrew slaves!’ and personally headed the mighty Egyptian army (all four of them) in hot pursuit.
I watched and wondered how they would show the parting of the Red Sea; that would stump them I thought. However, this was the clever bit. As the Israelites reached the shore, Moses held his metre ruler (sorry, trusty staff) aloft and the waves duly parted. Four kids, hidden underneath two large blankets, (blue not red) scrambled in different directions to let them pass safely through. As the treacherous Egyptians tried to follow, they were engulfed in a tempest of blanket. For the final authentic touch you could see Pharaoh’s crown as it bobbed on the surface before disappearing.
I resisted the urge to jump up and rescue the pretty Pharaoh, and applauded along with the rest of the school. A glance at the faces of my class mates was enough to realize that our modest production had been well and truly outclassed.
Sunday 27 November 2011
Fox in a Box
I once had a message left on my answer phone informing me that my stairlift had arrived and could I ring to arrange a suitable date for it to be fitted. I did phone them back and explained that a; at the (then) ripe old age of 27, I didn't feel I was quite ready for a stairlift, and b; I lived in a ground floor maisonette. Nonetheless, I assured them that if the situation changed I wouldn't hesitate to call. When my dad heard about this he told me of another 'wrong number' tale.
Dad once worked for a light engineering firm called 'Tamworth Gear and Spline'. A small outfit working from a unit on the local industrial estate - if you can remember Bill Maynard's 'The Gaffer' from the 80s then you've got a pretty good idea of the set up.
About two or three times a day, the firm would be phoned up by people with a plum enquiring if this was the Atherstone Hunt. Whether the noise of grinding gears and whining machinery was similar to the sound of hounds baying for poor Mr Fox's blood I'm not sure, but the calls carried on frequently. One morning the phone rang and one of the workforce (a character called Alan) answered.
'Ello, Tamworth Gear and Spline.'
'Excuse me,' began a snooty lady in Princess Anne tones. 'Have I got through to the Atherstone Hunt?'
Exasperated, Alan picked up an imaginary huntsmans horn, and gave a resounding blast down the phone.
'DA! DA! DA! DA! DA! WE'LL CATCH THAT FOX AND STICK HIM IN A BOX!!
There was a deathly silence - before the well groomed voice was heard once more.
'I presume then that I have the wrong number?'
Dad once worked for a light engineering firm called 'Tamworth Gear and Spline'. A small outfit working from a unit on the local industrial estate - if you can remember Bill Maynard's 'The Gaffer' from the 80s then you've got a pretty good idea of the set up.
About two or three times a day, the firm would be phoned up by people with a plum enquiring if this was the Atherstone Hunt. Whether the noise of grinding gears and whining machinery was similar to the sound of hounds baying for poor Mr Fox's blood I'm not sure, but the calls carried on frequently. One morning the phone rang and one of the workforce (a character called Alan) answered.
'Ello, Tamworth Gear and Spline.'
'Excuse me,' began a snooty lady in Princess Anne tones. 'Have I got through to the Atherstone Hunt?'
Exasperated, Alan picked up an imaginary huntsmans horn, and gave a resounding blast down the phone.
'DA! DA! DA! DA! DA! WE'LL CATCH THAT FOX AND STICK HIM IN A BOX!!
There was a deathly silence - before the well groomed voice was heard once more.
'I presume then that I have the wrong number?'
Saturday 12 November 2011
In Search of Private Butt
By September 1914, the war on the Western Front had been raging for over a month, the small professional British Army (The Old Contemptibles) had faced the larger German forces in a series of bloody battles. These veterans had taken heavy casualties and were a spent force - it was clear that a new army was needed to carry on the fight. Encouraged by Lord Kitchener's famous (or infamous) poster, thousands of men answered the national call for recruits. This initial enthusiasm was echoed in cities all across Britain, and no more so than in Birmingham, where amongst the flood of new volunteers was a midland lad named William Butt.
Typical of Great War volunteers, William is remarkable for his ordinariness. He was 37 years old, and a married father with three young daughters. His occupation was listed as a 'bone toy maker' - an original trade - but not one that I imagine brought in a comfortable income. I often wonder why William volunteered at his age. It may have been to help the country in a desperate time, or it could have been for more pragmatic reasons, such as a better wage and the the prestige of becoming a soldier. I think it was probably a little of both.
William enlisted in the 10th battalion (A Company) of the Royal Warwickshire Regiment, the volunteers were then posted to a training camp on Salisbury Plain, where they began the tough training to shape them into soldiers. Over the next three months, William and his fellow recruits (some nearly half his age) underwent endless drill with rigourous route marches to get their fitness up to scratch. Weapon practice consisted of training with spring loaded bayonets wearing padded jackets and firing on the range using the Lee Enfield rifle. Finally the time came when the 10th battalion was ready to be sent to the killing fields of northern France.
The 10th battalion, as part of the 19th (Western Division) arrived in France in July 1915, where they had a first taste of front line life. William and the other lads of the 10th were no doubt used to hardship and deprivation, but the lice and mud of the trenches must have come as a profound shock. In September 1915 the battalion had its first baptism of fire when it took part in the Loos offensive - however, its greatest test would arrive in July 1916 at the Battle of the Somme.
It would be easy - so the rumours went. After all, the Germans had been pounded senseless with heavy guns for a week, you could shoulder your rifle, light up a fag, and stroll across no-mans land to round up the dazed survivors. Some of the old army sweats probably doubted this naive advice and steeled themselves for a grim and costly assault. The defending Germans had simply crawled into their dugouts and sheltered from the storm of shot and shell. When the initial bombardment ceased, they emerged from cover, set up machine guns and waited for the inevitable allied attack.
As part of the 19th Division, the 10th Warwicks were part of the assault to capture the fortified village of La Boiselle. In the early morning gloom of July 3rd, William waited to go 'over the top'. Fellow midland regiments, the Staffords and the Worcesters had already gone forward and soon it would be the turn of the Warwicks. From across no-mans land, the sounds of a savage battle raged from the direction of the village. Finally the moment came, the shrill blasts of the officers' whistles sounded and the Warwicks clambered out of the trenches and into the teeth of the rattling machine guns.
In the ruins of the village, the German defenders had clung on stubbornly - however, battered from all sides by the waves of attacking Tommies, these brave soldiers began to fall back, and by nightfall, the British finally captured the village of La Boiselle. The human cost had been heavy - too heavy -thousands of British and Commonwealth soldiers had been killed in the assault. The 10th Warwicks lost 43 of its men during the battle, and amongst them was Private William Butt.
For William's wife, Annie and their daughters Lizzie, Jessie and little Elsie, the devastation at losing a husband and father can only be imagined.
Like many soldiers of the Great War, William has no known grave. However, his name is recorded on the 'Thiepval memorial to the Missing', which commemorates nearly 70,000 other Commonwealth soldiers.
One day I would like to visit the memorial, and pay my respects to that midland lad that never came home.
Thursday 3 November 2011
Back in Our Day - Pipkins
BBC may have had Fingerbobs- but ITV had Pipkins. Compared to the spartan Fingerbobs with its bits of card and paper, Pipkins was an epic production, featuring proper puppets and real locations. Pipkins was a sort of puppet helping agency, with Hartley Hare as the self styled, bombastic managing director. Other puppets in the team included food loving brummie pig, miserly tortoise (the book keeper) and Topov the monkey.
Nobody ever marketed a rangle of Pipkins cuddly toys, and its not difficult to see why - they were some of the tattiest puppets ever to grace the screens of kids' TV. Hartley was a particularly moth eaten specimen, and at best resembled something found in a ditch. Together with various human helpers (Sue Nicholls, et al), this rag bag of toys inhabited a junk shop, not dissimilar to that of Steptoe and Son.
However, what they lacked in looks, they made up for in character; and the antics of Hartley and Co. kept many a 70s kid amused at lunchtime. Notable episodes include Hartley running amok with a scary glove puppet called Michael, a Wild West showdown in the back yard and of course the infamous 'Odd One Out' where Hartley develops a strange fixation with a fish slice.
In 30 odd years, Kids' TV has come a long way, and largely thanks to CGI, the programmes my children watch are far more slicker and sophisticated compared to the homespun productions of my childhood. But more entertaining? Hmmm, I'm not so sure...
Sunday 30 October 2011
Golem
Tomorrow night is Halloween, and the traditional time for spectres and spooks to venture forth from their graves to indulge in a spot of haunting. Also, I thought it would be a good excuse to have a go at writing a ghostly tale. This writing was inspired by a visit to the old Jewish synagogue and cemetery at Krakow. I thought the cemetery was an eerie place and could imagine what it must feel like to be there on a cold winters night....
Dieter huddled into his greatcoat - another three hours in this god forsaken place. He blew on his fingers and stamped his feet, as flakes of snow drifted down to settle amongst the tombstones of the old Jewish cemetery. He hitched his rifle over his shoulder and lit a cigarette, grateful for the taste of the harsh smoke.
To the side of the cemetery, the old synagogue stood brooding and silent; he finished his smoke and started his lonely circuit of the burial ground. Just beyond the town, up on the hill, he could see the dark outline of the castle. 'That's where I should be,' he thought miserably, 'drinking schnaps and playing cards in the barracks, not stuck here freezing, with only the dead for company!'
As if in answer to his thoughts, the small windows of the synagogue were suddenly lit up with a dim flickering light. Dieters heart quickened, the building was locked and secured by orders of Major Schultz, nothing or nobody should be in there. The young soldier unslung his rifle and picked his way through the crumbling gravestones towards the synagogue.
'Who is there?' his voice echoed mockingly around the cemetery
The front door was still locked and barred, but a low chanting could be heard within. Dieter raised his rifle butt and thumped hard on the door, the dim light flickered out and the chanting ceased - all was dark and silent.
'Dieter! Dieter!' an icy voice seemed to whisper in his ear.
He spun around rifle levelled, 'Who is this - show yourselves!' But there was nothing - just him and the silent stones, he was alone - or was he?
In the middle of the cemetery was an unmarked mound, and in its dank soil something stirred, wormlike fingers scratched their way to the surface, and like some scrabbling spider, a clay brown hand appeared clutching at the cold earth...
Monday 17 October 2011
Pick Your Poison
As a teenager, I certainly made some unusual choices of beverage when it came to the demon drink. I think it all started in the New Year of 88, when a mate and I decided to sample the contents of my parents' Christmas drinks cabinet. After sampling the usual 80s seasonal tipples such as Cinzano and Advocaat we decided to mix some novelty cocktails, I forget the actual recipe (if there ever was one) but I'm pretty sure there was a generous dash of Port, probably followed by Malibu and topped off with a 'healthy' slosh of brandy.
The brandy was the problem - it went down too well; all too soon the brandy level was heading dangerously near the bottom of the bottle. Not wishing to face the wrath of my Dad when he discovered his favourite nightcap had been necked, we wracked our (sozzled) brains for a solution. Obviously buying a bottle of brandy was beyond our limited funds so what could we do? The answer was simple; add a bit of H20 from the kitchen tap and he'll never know. It would have been better if we'd left it alone - at least dad could have salvaged a miniscule measure of brandy; as it was, he was left with an unusual concotion that resembled the contents of a catheter bag. Dad was not impressed, there were probably some choice phrases such as 'Little sods, what have they done! and the drinks were removed and well hidden.
At that age, buying booze became something of an art form. Not flushed with cash, the trick was to look in the off-licence for the beverages that packed a punch in alcohol but were also dirt cheap. Naturally, this combination didn't lend itself to quality and included classics such as Thunderbird (the Rolls Royce of rotgut wine) Old Country Cider (popular tipple at bus stations) and QC 'sherry' (not intended to be quaffed in a pint pot).
I once stumbled across a bygone relic of Dad's brief flirt with wine making. It was a dusty old bottle at the back of a cupboard and labelled 'Beetroot Port 1976'. Back in the 70s, before all the cheap supermarket plonk, many people dabbled in making home made wine (I think Dad's wine production came to an end after an Elderberry creation exploded amongst the white sheets of the airing cupboard). I'm not sure 76 was a vintage year for Beetroot Port but the bottle was subsequently opened and its 12 year old contents drunk by myself and a mate. I dont know what Oz Clarke would have made of it, but it certainly had an 'interesting' bouquet - Bottoms Up!!
The brandy was the problem - it went down too well; all too soon the brandy level was heading dangerously near the bottom of the bottle. Not wishing to face the wrath of my Dad when he discovered his favourite nightcap had been necked, we wracked our (sozzled) brains for a solution. Obviously buying a bottle of brandy was beyond our limited funds so what could we do? The answer was simple; add a bit of H20 from the kitchen tap and he'll never know. It would have been better if we'd left it alone - at least dad could have salvaged a miniscule measure of brandy; as it was, he was left with an unusual concotion that resembled the contents of a catheter bag. Dad was not impressed, there were probably some choice phrases such as 'Little sods, what have they done! and the drinks were removed and well hidden.
At that age, buying booze became something of an art form. Not flushed with cash, the trick was to look in the off-licence for the beverages that packed a punch in alcohol but were also dirt cheap. Naturally, this combination didn't lend itself to quality and included classics such as Thunderbird (the Rolls Royce of rotgut wine) Old Country Cider (popular tipple at bus stations) and QC 'sherry' (not intended to be quaffed in a pint pot).
I once stumbled across a bygone relic of Dad's brief flirt with wine making. It was a dusty old bottle at the back of a cupboard and labelled 'Beetroot Port 1976'. Back in the 70s, before all the cheap supermarket plonk, many people dabbled in making home made wine (I think Dad's wine production came to an end after an Elderberry creation exploded amongst the white sheets of the airing cupboard). I'm not sure 76 was a vintage year for Beetroot Port but the bottle was subsequently opened and its 12 year old contents drunk by myself and a mate. I dont know what Oz Clarke would have made of it, but it certainly had an 'interesting' bouquet - Bottoms Up!!
Sunday 2 October 2011
Swing Low...
Courtesy of my light sleeping son, I was up with the larks at 5am on Sunday morning. There was nothing for it but to stick the kettle on, make a bacon butty and settle in an armchair to watch some World Cup rugby. The match was Wales verses Fiji - a one sided affair where a strong young Welsh team ripped into the poor Fijians and banged in try after try to finish with a score of 66-0. I felt a twinge of nostalgia watching the match and thought back to own (albeit very brief) experience of playing rugger.
At school, I was never much good at football. Unlike many kids my age the 'beautiful game' never interested me and I found myself looking forward to soccer sessions with all the enthusiasm of a Roman slave in the coliseum. Even if you were up for a footie match, the would be Kevin Keegans and Brian Robsons ensured you never got a sniff of the ball. When I moved up to High School things changed - soccer was still there but so was rugby.
I'm not sure why rugby hooked me so much. Was it the way you could (sometimes) bang a try in over the touchline, and the satisfaction of sending an opposing kid crashing to the mud in a 'crunching tackle' ( as our games teacher gleefully described them)? Or was it that you could admire the collection of bruises you generally aquired after a rugger session? One thing was for certain - I enjoyed playing rugger and for the first time actually looked forward to games lessons. To my long regret I never took my rugby any further at school and stopped playing when I left at sixteen. As part of my OU course I wrote about my school experiences and included a rugby scene as part of the story. Here's an extract from the story featuring that scene. Hope it brings back memories of freezing playing fields for some of you guys.
The rest of the class were paired off, and we carried on this friendly, albeit slightly rough game of two on two. The final whistle blew - and a couple of titches had held their own and banged in a couple of tries. I was tattooed in mud and sported a potato coloured bruise on my thigh; but as we headed back to the changing rooms I felt contented - I had actually enjoyed a games lesson
At school, I was never much good at football. Unlike many kids my age the 'beautiful game' never interested me and I found myself looking forward to soccer sessions with all the enthusiasm of a Roman slave in the coliseum. Even if you were up for a footie match, the would be Kevin Keegans and Brian Robsons ensured you never got a sniff of the ball. When I moved up to High School things changed - soccer was still there but so was rugby.
I'm not sure why rugby hooked me so much. Was it the way you could (sometimes) bang a try in over the touchline, and the satisfaction of sending an opposing kid crashing to the mud in a 'crunching tackle' ( as our games teacher gleefully described them)? Or was it that you could admire the collection of bruises you generally aquired after a rugger session? One thing was for certain - I enjoyed playing rugger and for the first time actually looked forward to games lessons. To my long regret I never took my rugby any further at school and stopped playing when I left at sixteen. As part of my OU course I wrote about my school experiences and included a rugby scene as part of the story. Here's an extract from the story featuring that scene. Hope it brings back memories of freezing playing fields for some of you guys.
An icy wind knifed across the playing fields from the direction of the old colliery mound. The group of lads stood huddled at the edge of the pitch, waiting to learn the basics of rugby. I hoped we’d do something soon as my legs had started to turn shivery blue; as blue as the tinged collar of my football shirt, where it’d had been washed on the wrong setting.
I knew a bit about rugby as I’d seen Bill Beaumont and Gareth Edwards on A Question of Sport; my dad also told me our local vet had played rugby for England. Those guys certainly seemed a different breed to glamorous footballers such as Gary Linacre. The tall, track-suited figure of Mr Jones the games teacher, paced down the line of lads.
‘Today we’re going to start practicing some passing and tackling,’ his battered face scanned around for ‘volunteers’. ‘Let’s have Rob and Gavin for starters.’
It was a pity he hadn’t picked Jamie as his extra size could have been useful. Gavin was like me – a half pint.
Jones grinned wickedly, ‘Let’s make it interesting. Against Rob and Gavin we’ll have Mick and Jason.’
I glanced towards Gavin and rolled my eyes as the two heavyweights stepped forward. Mick ‘Tank’ Haines and Jason ‘Chopper’ Everard. Interesting? You sadistic sod Jonesy!
‘Rob and Gavin are going to try and get past Mick and Jason and score.’
Some of the class exchanged grins - this was going to be fun they thought.
We began a tentative run towards the heavier lads who came out to meet us. Tank Haines moved to intercept Gavin who quickly passed the ball over to me. I made to dodge around Everard and reach the touch line. Nearly - but not quite. Two bear like arms grabbed me and I slammed into the boot-churned pitch.
‘Crunching tackle!’ called out Jones from the sideline. ‘Good effort though Rob!’
‘Are you all right?’ Everard held his large paw out to help me up.
‘Fine,’ I replied, feeling strangely elated.
Next came the turn of the other lads, and they lumbered forward with surprising speed. I managed to bring down Everard, just before Haines, living up to his nickname, battered through Gavin’s slender defence.
‘Not bad at all lads,’ called out Jones encouragingly.
The rest of the class were paired off, and we carried on this friendly, albeit slightly rough game of two on two. The final whistle blew - and a couple of titches had held their own and banged in a couple of tries. I was tattooed in mud and sported a potato coloured bruise on my thigh; but as we headed back to the changing rooms I felt contented - I had actually enjoyed a games lesson
Sunday 25 September 2011
Conkers & Pineapple Chunks
I wonder why the year doesn't start in September, as so many different things begin at that time - like school or college terms. I remember as a kid, the endless summer break coming to an end and a new classroom beckoning for a new term.
At Junior School a regular September fixture was the Harvest Festival where we were asked to donate to the church harvest. I would scour the cupboards at home, looking for any stray tins of corned beef or fruit chunks lurking at the back. Along with the rest of the school our class would walk down to the Abbey in 'crocodile' where the 'harvest' would be displayed. I looked in vain for my tin of pineapple chunks amongst the mountain of cans and fresh produce. The vicar (later Canon) was a cheery chappy and usually read a suitable food themed sermon, emphasising the abscence of it in some countries. One year, as a sort of filler slot, one musically minded lad gave us a rendition of the 'Chariots of Fire' theme - no connection with the Harvest Festival, but diverting stuff none the less.
Of course, September was also the conker season. Like marbles they seemed to be a sort of unofficial currency at school and like the real thing I never seemed to have a lot - maybe I looked in the wrong places. There were a few horse chestnut trees in the Abbey churchyard though, and myself and a mate decided upon a conker hunting expedition there one evening. One tree had some lovely specimens hanging high in the branches. After some fruitless attempts to dislodge them by lobbing up sticks, my mate decided to scale the tree. The spiky prizes were almost in his grasp when there was a sudden shout of 'OI!!' Some ratty old fellow (there seemed to be a lot of them around in the 80s) had appeared from nowhere, and in no uncertain terms told us to bugger off out of the churchyard.
So for me, September has always seemed like a time of change, transition and a little uncertainty. In the meantime, my daughter's nursery is having a food collection for Harvest Festival, and I'm sure if I look hard enough I'll find a tin of fruit chunks hiding in the cupboard somewhere!
At Junior School a regular September fixture was the Harvest Festival where we were asked to donate to the church harvest. I would scour the cupboards at home, looking for any stray tins of corned beef or fruit chunks lurking at the back. Along with the rest of the school our class would walk down to the Abbey in 'crocodile' where the 'harvest' would be displayed. I looked in vain for my tin of pineapple chunks amongst the mountain of cans and fresh produce. The vicar (later Canon) was a cheery chappy and usually read a suitable food themed sermon, emphasising the abscence of it in some countries. One year, as a sort of filler slot, one musically minded lad gave us a rendition of the 'Chariots of Fire' theme - no connection with the Harvest Festival, but diverting stuff none the less.
Of course, September was also the conker season. Like marbles they seemed to be a sort of unofficial currency at school and like the real thing I never seemed to have a lot - maybe I looked in the wrong places. There were a few horse chestnut trees in the Abbey churchyard though, and myself and a mate decided upon a conker hunting expedition there one evening. One tree had some lovely specimens hanging high in the branches. After some fruitless attempts to dislodge them by lobbing up sticks, my mate decided to scale the tree. The spiky prizes were almost in his grasp when there was a sudden shout of 'OI!!' Some ratty old fellow (there seemed to be a lot of them around in the 80s) had appeared from nowhere, and in no uncertain terms told us to bugger off out of the churchyard.
So for me, September has always seemed like a time of change, transition and a little uncertainty. In the meantime, my daughter's nursery is having a food collection for Harvest Festival, and I'm sure if I look hard enough I'll find a tin of fruit chunks hiding in the cupboard somewhere!
Sunday 18 September 2011
And all that Jazz...
Lurking in the depths of our loft is a case - a very shopworn case, looking not unlike Gladstone's battered brief previously used for the budget statement. However, this case is home to a trumpet which once belonged to my dad.
When my parents moved, a few years ago, the trumpet was passed on to me and it was housed in the loft, where it sits to this day - patiently waiting for somebody brave enough to play it. Come to think of it, that trumpet has spent most of it's life in lofts, occasionally seeing the light of day as a curio for us kids, where, with puffing cheeks and sprays of spittle we would gamely attempt to coax some sounds from it.
The trumpet's story goes back to the late 1950s. Dad and his mates were keen bikers, but rather than listening to the latest Rock and Roll tunes they preferred the bygone sounds of the Jazz Age. Dad's mates had formed their own jazz group and he often volunteered his services as a sort of roadie. Indeed, this group had even reached the dizzy heights of regional television, appearing on a daytime show called Lunchbox presented by the esteemed Noel Gordon of future Crossroads fame.
Not content with being merely a helping hand, Dad wished to emulate his Jazz heroes such as Louie Armstrong and Dizzy Gillespie - so the next step was to buy a trumpet to practice with.
The details have been lost in the fog of history, but I gather that Dad, who was still living at home then, was persuaded by my Grandma to put the practice sessions on hold - permanently. Apparently, the neighbours weren't too sympathetic to the needs of a fledgling jazz trumpeter. The sessions stopped and the trumpet was returned to its case.
When my parents moved into their new home, the trumpet, together with numerous model planes, was consigned into the dark tomb of the loft. Forty four years later, it's still waiting in a (albeit different) loft. Maybe one day my son or daughter will get the urge to play - and it's golden hour will finally arrive.
When my parents moved, a few years ago, the trumpet was passed on to me and it was housed in the loft, where it sits to this day - patiently waiting for somebody brave enough to play it. Come to think of it, that trumpet has spent most of it's life in lofts, occasionally seeing the light of day as a curio for us kids, where, with puffing cheeks and sprays of spittle we would gamely attempt to coax some sounds from it.
The trumpet's story goes back to the late 1950s. Dad and his mates were keen bikers, but rather than listening to the latest Rock and Roll tunes they preferred the bygone sounds of the Jazz Age. Dad's mates had formed their own jazz group and he often volunteered his services as a sort of roadie. Indeed, this group had even reached the dizzy heights of regional television, appearing on a daytime show called Lunchbox presented by the esteemed Noel Gordon of future Crossroads fame.
Not content with being merely a helping hand, Dad wished to emulate his Jazz heroes such as Louie Armstrong and Dizzy Gillespie - so the next step was to buy a trumpet to practice with.
The details have been lost in the fog of history, but I gather that Dad, who was still living at home then, was persuaded by my Grandma to put the practice sessions on hold - permanently. Apparently, the neighbours weren't too sympathetic to the needs of a fledgling jazz trumpeter. The sessions stopped and the trumpet was returned to its case.
When my parents moved into their new home, the trumpet, together with numerous model planes, was consigned into the dark tomb of the loft. Forty four years later, it's still waiting in a (albeit different) loft. Maybe one day my son or daughter will get the urge to play - and it's golden hour will finally arrive.
Monday 5 September 2011
A Gothic Evening
This is the title of a short story I'm working on at the moment - now I've finished my OU studies, (big cheer!) I can start catching up on some writing. The 'gothic' in the title refers to goth culture and music, with the story's setting (and some events) loosely based on a gig I went to as a spotty teenager back in 1988 - the characters are all fictional.
The 'Queen Caroline' pub was inspired by a watering hole in Leicester called the 'The Princess Charlotte'. This later became 'The Charlotte' a celebrated venue on the indie 'toilet circuit', playing host to such future legends as Pulp, Radiohead and Blur. I never got the chance to revisit The Charlotte and never will either, as it sadly closed its doors for the last time in 2010 to be 'developed' into student flats.
Anyway, hope you enjoy this short extract from the story. It's a first draft and needs a lot of editing - but see what you think.
I felt a sharp wrench inside. Yes I mind, and well you bloody know it .
‘Not at all, good luck to you.’
‘That’s cool, cause I’ve already asked her out!’
Ant must have noticed my lack of enthusiasm, as he added his own eloquent two penn’orth, ‘Jamie’s just miffed that he never got the chance to get into her knickers.’
A four letter retort sprang to mind but I said nothing.
‘Never mind Jamie, perhaps you’ll have more luck with these Goth chicks.’
I’d recently listened to a new Bon Jovi song called ‘Blood on Blood’ about kids being friends for ever and all that. I thought it could have been written about me, Ant and Matt, only now I wasn’t so sure - we’d turned sixteen and something had changed.
The 'Queen Caroline' pub was inspired by a watering hole in Leicester called the 'The Princess Charlotte'. This later became 'The Charlotte' a celebrated venue on the indie 'toilet circuit', playing host to such future legends as Pulp, Radiohead and Blur. I never got the chance to revisit The Charlotte and never will either, as it sadly closed its doors for the last time in 2010 to be 'developed' into student flats.
Anyway, hope you enjoy this short extract from the story. It's a first draft and needs a lot of editing - but see what you think.
Leyford on a Monday evening was like a Wild West ghost town, with October leaves and crisp bags that drifted sadly about. The Art Centre was closed and silent, but a skewed poster on the door informed us that ‘Soul Scream’ would be playing live at the Queen Caroline in Stafford – coach leaves at 7.00pm. We sat down on the wall and Ant chucked us each a fag, he made a grand gesture of lighting them with his new Zippo lighter, and nearly burnt his fingers for his efforts. Matt looked thoughtful as he took a drag of his ciggy, then he turned to me with a wry smile.
‘Hope you don’t mind, Jamie mate, but as you and Emily are no longer an item – you don’t mind if I have a crack at her.’I felt a sharp wrench inside. Yes I mind, and well you bloody know it .
‘Not at all, good luck to you.’
‘That’s cool, cause I’ve already asked her out!’
Ant must have noticed my lack of enthusiasm, as he added his own eloquent two penn’orth, ‘Jamie’s just miffed that he never got the chance to get into her knickers.’
A four letter retort sprang to mind but I said nothing.
‘Never mind Jamie, perhaps you’ll have more luck with these Goth chicks.’
I’d recently listened to a new Bon Jovi song called ‘Blood on Blood’ about kids being friends for ever and all that. I thought it could have been written about me, Ant and Matt, only now I wasn’t so sure - we’d turned sixteen and something had changed.
Thursday 1 September 2011
Song of a Baker
Continuing with a Saxon theme (vaguely), when it comes to burning food I could give Alfred the Great a few tips. One work lunchtime, I once decided that as a change from cheese buttys I'd toast a few crumpets. The elderly office toaster struggled with this and decided to cremate the crumpets instead. This is in turn set off the alarm and was the signal for the Fire Brigade to arrive with helmets and hatchets all set to tackle the raging inferno (que cheap jokes about hot crumpet etc). I can only be thankful we don't have an office sprinkler system.
Recently I thought I'd have a dabble at baking, and what better choice to start with than a few rock cakes. Baking in our house isn't as straight forward as one would seen. First of all, my wife Sue, is a coeliac, which means that any food stuffs which have a trace of wheat in them, from cereals to sauces, are a no-go. Fortunately, there is a range of excellent gluten-free recipes available, including one for rock cakes. My three year old daughter Jodie, also offered to 'help'. Jodie, although brimming with enthusiasm, still needs to learn a little finesse, and an extra large mixing bowl is required to prevent the walls and surfaces being decorated with flying cake mix. After a while, she decided that watching 'Grandpa in my Pocket' was more interesting than helping Dad make cakes, so she skipped off and left me to finish . Twenty minutes later (and no King Alfred style burnt offerings) the smell of baking filled the kitchen and a tray of rock cakes lay cooling on the side.
And there they are - a little rustic looking perhaps - but not bad with a cup of English Breakfast tea. Somehow I don't think I'll be entering the Great British Bake off just yet though!
Recently I thought I'd have a dabble at baking, and what better choice to start with than a few rock cakes. Baking in our house isn't as straight forward as one would seen. First of all, my wife Sue, is a coeliac, which means that any food stuffs which have a trace of wheat in them, from cereals to sauces, are a no-go. Fortunately, there is a range of excellent gluten-free recipes available, including one for rock cakes. My three year old daughter Jodie, also offered to 'help'. Jodie, although brimming with enthusiasm, still needs to learn a little finesse, and an extra large mixing bowl is required to prevent the walls and surfaces being decorated with flying cake mix. After a while, she decided that watching 'Grandpa in my Pocket' was more interesting than helping Dad make cakes, so she skipped off and left me to finish . Twenty minutes later (and no King Alfred style burnt offerings) the smell of baking filled the kitchen and a tray of rock cakes lay cooling on the side.
And there they are - a little rustic looking perhaps - but not bad with a cup of English Breakfast tea. Somehow I don't think I'll be entering the Great British Bake off just yet though!
Monday 29 August 2011
Bring me my Broadsword...
I remember a former work colleague and ex Tamworthian who assured me that Tamworth was indeed once the capital of England. Naturally this drew scoffs and sniggers from those who thought that Tamworth was only famous for Reliant Robins . What Dave meant was that in the depths of the 'Dark Ages' our modest town was the seat of no less a person than the Saxon King Offa (he of dyke fame). As Offa's kingdom of Mercia was (at that time) the largest in England, by default, Tamworth could be considered the main town in Saxon England. Lofty claims aside, Tamworth was certainly a significant Saxon town, and recently a huge horde of beautiful gold Saxon treasure was unearthed in a field not far from Tamworth.
This weekend was the August bank holiday, and to celebrate there was a Saxon festival held in Tamworth. A small army of cheery reeanctors descended upon the town to recreate the sound, sights (thankfully not the smells) of ninth century Mercia. There were demonstrations a plenty, from archery and storytelling to battles and burial rites. The climax being a shieldwall battle between the men of Mercia lead by plucky Queen Ethelfeleda against the dastardly Danes fighting under the Raven banner.
In a couple of weeks CAMRA hold the annual Tamworth beer festival and no doubt Beowulf Breweries will be sporting some suitably themed ales (mmmm - Dragon Smoke Stout!). So grab a drinking horn of ale and raise a rousing toast of Wassail!
This weekend was the August bank holiday, and to celebrate there was a Saxon festival held in Tamworth. A small army of cheery reeanctors descended upon the town to recreate the sound, sights (thankfully not the smells) of ninth century Mercia. There were demonstrations a plenty, from archery and storytelling to battles and burial rites. The climax being a shieldwall battle between the men of Mercia lead by plucky Queen Ethelfeleda against the dastardly Danes fighting under the Raven banner.
In a couple of weeks CAMRA hold the annual Tamworth beer festival and no doubt Beowulf Breweries will be sporting some suitably themed ales (mmmm - Dragon Smoke Stout!). So grab a drinking horn of ale and raise a rousing toast of Wassail!
Saturday 27 August 2011
Back in our day- Fingerbobs
For those too young to remember, Fingerbobs was a sort of hippy puppet programme presented by a character called 'Yoffy' (aka Rick Jones), who looked like a member of rock band 'Jethro Tull'. Yoffy, in his trademark grey sweater and neckerchief, would don several different gloves, from which he would create a number of card finger puppets. These included 'Gulliver' - a seagull made from an old ping-pong ball, 'Tortoise' (Whats the hurry?) and of course Fingermouse (The mouse with guts and verve!). A typical episode involved fingermouse sent off on a sort of quest to fetch beach pebbles that Yoffy could doodle smiley faces on and pretend they were cats, caterpillers etc.
As the puppets were made out of coloured card and gloves, Fingerbobs couldn't have put much of a dent in the kids' TV budget, the bearded Yoffy was the sole presenter and the theme music was provided by a solitary flute (Jethro Tull again?) and drum with maybe the odd xylophone piece thrown in. Like its contemporaries such as Bagpuss and Mr Benn there was only about a dozen programmes made, as a kid you don't realise this and the number of episodes seemed to stretch to infinity and beyond.
A few years ago in a programme about kids TV, Rick Jones stated emphatically that he loathed fingerbobs and would have sooner have been strutting the boards in a Shakespeare play. However, my daughter seemed to enjoy watching it, which just shows that in the age of CGI dominated programmes an old (to my eyes then) hippy with a few gloves and bits of assorted junk can still be entertaining to kids nearly forty years on - now that's class.
Wednesday 24 August 2011
Rob's First Ramble.
I've been thinking about starting a blog for some time now and finally got round to it. So to kick off these ramblings here's a little about me. I' m a thirty-something (just about) father of two who just likes to write - short stories, life writing, reviews - anything really. My top fictional books are the classic gothic tales by authors such as M R James and Algernon Blackwood and fantasy/ science fiction writers - Jack Vance's Lyonesse series is a particular favourite. I also enjoy the work of humourists and would like to get round to reading some P J Wodehouse one day.
When I'm not scribbling , I'm often changing nappies but I have been known to indulge in cycling and gardening (not in that order) and I've just finished an OU degree. I also dabble in a spot of cooking and would like to graduate beyond Sharwoods' sauces.
When I'm not scribbling , I'm often changing nappies but I have been known to indulge in cycling and gardening (not in that order) and I've just finished an OU degree. I also dabble in a spot of cooking and would like to graduate beyond Sharwoods' sauces.
Best wishes
Rob
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